


Like a Cruel Mistress Woos

by Salvia_G



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. References, F/M, Gen, I'm serious about that folks, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Open Relationships, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Road Trips, Roman Catholicism, Steve Rogers is canonically a practicing Catholic, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Virgin Steve Rogers, also just plain homophobia, mostly movie verse, some comic canon (pretty much whenever I wanted)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 02:17:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 57
Words: 183,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1801759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salvia_G/pseuds/Salvia_G
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve has struggled with the modern world since he woke up, and mostly he and it have called it a draw.  When the Winter Soldier comes in from the cold, asking for help in recovering his identity as James Buchanan Barnes, Steve is thrilled.  Finally, he's going to have a friend and ally who understands what it's like.  He's getting Bucky back, and he couldn't be happier.</p><p>But six months later, James is well enough to be living in Avenger Tower, making moves on Natasha Romanov, occasionally fighting the forces of evil alongside the Avengers, and adapting to modern life like he was born in 1987 instead of 1917.</p><p>And he wants nothing to do with Steve.</p><p>Maybe it's time to figure out what Steve wants if he doesn't have Bucky.  What he can live with. What's not worth living without.</p><p>Featuring a confused and questioning Steve Rogers, a Tony Stark with a daddy complex, a Bucky Barnes whose mouth needs to be washed out with soap, a Natasha Romanov who likes her cars fast and her boys bad, and a handful of OMCs with designs on Steve.  But I promise you'll come to love them just as much as Steve does.  Most of them.</p><p>ON SUMMER VACATION.  <a href="http://salviag.tumblr.com">tumblr</a> for details.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Skipping Town

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the first line of Alfred Noyes' poem, "To a Pessimist":
> 
> Life like a cruel mistress woos   
> The passionate heart of man, you say,   
> Only in mockery to refuse   
> His love, at last, and turn away.  
> To me she seems a queen that knows   
> How great is love--but ah, how rare!--   
> And, pointing heavenward ere she goes,   
> Gives him the rose from out her hair.

***

 

_February 28th_

Tony Stark being who he was—and the various Avengers who they were—sometimes Steve was caught off guard when he entered a room.  Once he’d been waiting for the elevator and when the doors opened Maria Hill and Phil Coulson—a guy he’d thought had died a couple years ago—were inside conversing.  Maria nodded in greeting to Steve as they exited the elevator, and Phil offered him a smile and a brief “Good to see you again, Captain;” but neither offered any explanation for Phil’s presence.  Another time Steve had entered the “lounge”—Tony’s word for it, not his—to find Natasha, sitting on Clint’s shoulders, wrestling with Tony, who was sitting on Thor’s shoulders, while Bruce and Pepper laughed by the bar.  And those things happened before Bucky moved in.  

So Steve liked to think he had gotten used to the occasional surprise when he was in the Tower.  

But whatever Steve had expected when he entered Stark Tower’s conference room three, it wasn’t two mostly nude assassins sprawled together on the conference table.

 _“_ What the hell?” Bucky said.  “You never learn how to knock?”  His face hot, a mortified Steve studied the grain of the conference table as Natasha put her clothing in order.

“I asked JARVIS to announce an Avengers’ meeting in this conference room  in fifteen minutes,” he said.  “You might have gotten the message if you hadn’t disabled JARVIS’s protocols.”  He risked a quick glance up.  Natasha wasn’t dressed but she had mostly covered up.  She seemed cool as ever.  Incredible.  He  didn’t feel that way, and he wasn’t the one caught half-naked on a conference room table a quarter hour before a meeting.  “But maybe we should push that meeting back another fifteen minutes.  And use the conference room down the hall.”  He paused.  “Bucky, I know you’re not official; but you’re invited too.”

“Yeah, no thanks,” Bucky replied.  “You kids have fun.”  He pulled Natasha close again and directed a pointed look at Steve.  “You done yet?  ‘Cause I’m not quite, but half an hour could get me there.”

_Son of a gun—_

“Yeah, I’m done,” Steve said.  “Maybe you could get a private room next time?  It’s not that hard—you both live here.”

“Oh, it’s still hard,”  Bucky said.  “Though you’re kinda putting a damper on things.”

“I can’t believe you talk like that in front of a lady,” Steve said.  Bucky and Natasha responded at the same time.

“I’m not going to faint at a little innuendo, Steve,” she said. 

“Fucking Boy Scout,” Bucky said.

Steve wasn’t the kind who quit or walked away from a fight, but this wasn’t a battle he wanted to have.  He turned and left the room, closing the door firmly behind him.

“JARVIS,”  he said.  “Reinstate normal protocols in conference room three.”

“Yes, Captain Rogers,” JARVIS answered.  

“Audio confirmation, please,”  Steve said.  A moment later, Natasha’s voice came over the speakers.

“—such an asshole to him?” she was saying.

“Yes, I do,” Bucky said.  “He expects me to be his friend.  I ain’t interested, but he will not take a fucking hint.”  

“You can’t blame him, James,” Natasha said.  “You may not remember much of your life before, but you are Bucky Barnes.”

“Maybe I was that guy seventy years ago, but I’m not him any more,” Bucky said.  “Can we please get back to what we were doing and forget Captain fucking America? Maybe I have to put up with him when we’re working, but I don’t want him in my personal life and I sure as hell don’t want him in my bedroom.”

“What a sweet talker you are,” Natasha said, laughter in her voice.

“JARVIS, end audio transmission,” Steve said.  He walked down the hall to conference room ten.  That door he allowed himself to slam before tossing the USB drives he’d prepared for each of the Avengers—and Bucky—onto the conference table.  He leaned against the door and closed his eyes.  Stepping into the conference room to find Natasha laid out on the conference table with Bucky leaning over her, a silver hand gripping red hair…

Her legs wrapped around his waist, his mouth at her breast…

He had never seen a couple together like that.  He had frozen in the doorway, hot and sick all at once.

He hadn’t known it was like that for them.  Did everybody else know?  Neither of them had asked him to keep it secret, so maybe so.  Steve knew what it was like to be on the outside, but never with Bucky.  And he’d thought Natasha was a friend, too.  She’d shown enough interest in whether or not he was dating; he would have thought she’d tell him about this.

And Natasha didn’t need anyone protecting her, but a part of him wanted to lecture Bucky about respecting a lady anyway.  Bucky had never stayed with one girl for long; there were too many of them falling all over him, and he had never become too attached to any of them.  There was always another girl.

Though maybe it would be different with Natasha.  Bucky wasn’t the guy he’d been before.  And there weren’t many women like Natasha.

Once, when his mom had caught him trying to overhear her whispered conversation with Bucky’s mom, she had told him, “eavesdroppers rarely hear anything good about themselves.”  He didn’t get it at the time; because they had been talking about how Erin Callahan had moved away and come back six months later, a ‘widow’ with a newborn baby.  It hadn’t been a thing to do with him.  But Mom had been right, because it sure was true now.

Bucky wasn’t who he had been, and the guy he was now wouldn’t give Steve the time of day.  

Steve sighed and scrubbed his face with his hands.  He had thought about what it would be like, finding Bucky again, bringing him home.  Of course he had thought about it.  And he had been prepared for Bucky to have some adjusting to his new life to do.  He had expected it.  It had been difficult for Steve to adjust, and while Steve had woke to a very different world than the one in which he had died, it was still his world:  still New York, still the U.S.; and most importantly, he was still himself.  Bucky had none of that.  If he had had a home for the past seventy years, it had been in that coffin deep in Hydra’s vaults.  He had been brought out of cryogenic preservation many times during that period, but he had never been allowed time to integrate the changes time had wrought.  He was given a mission, and when it was complete he was put back in frozen storage.  And his memory, his self, had been erased again and again.

No matter what this modern world thought of him, Steve wasn’t naive enough to expect that Bucky would be his same old self, unchanged by his experiences as the Winter Soldier.  Of course he’d be affected by it.

But it would still be Bucky underneath.  Once Bucky had been treated by the best doctors Tony Stark’s money could buy, he would remember who he was.  He’d mourn the lives he’d taken.  He’d be devastated by the things he had done while he was the Winter Soldier, but he would recover and learn to live in this new age.

And Steve would be there.  They had been inseparable before their “deaths” and Steve didn’t see why that would change.  Bucky had recognized him—it had been that recognition that had spurred him to save Steve’s life before he remembered anything more than his friend’s face.  So Steve thought they would find Bucky and bring him in out of the cold and get him the very best help and he would remember who he was and he would be free again.  He would be Steve’s best friend again.

It hadn’t happened that way.

And no matter how much Steve wanted that—and he wanted it more than anything—he couldn’t force Bucky to want the same thing.  And it sure seemed like he didn’t.

Who would have thought that his best friend would turn up in the 21st century, alive—and if not well, getting there—and Steve would be just as alone as the first day he woke from his long sleep?

Life had never been easy for Steve, and he wasn’t the type to stay down no matter how many hits he took.  But when they debriefed after a mission, and Bucky sat by Clint’s side instead of his, it hurt.  When his invitations to go running had been turned down in favor of sparring with Natasha, it hurt.  When Bucky laughed at Tony’s jokes, but his face went blank when Steve walked into a room.

Boy, did it hurt.

Steve had done his best to hide it.  He wasn’t sure if he fooled anyone, but no one had tried to make him talk about it.

He scrubbed his face with his hands again.  He couldn’t do this right now.

“JARVIS, please tell everyone that the meeting’s postponed,” he said.  “I feel sick.  I’m going home.”

“Of course, Captain,” JARVIS said.

Steve left the flash drives on the table.  He took the stairs down to the fire exit rather than risk seeing anyone, and five minutes later he was out of the building.

Usually Steve took the subway over from Manhattan, but that night he ran home.  Every time he saw Bucky and Natasha in his head, he concentrated instead on the rhythm of his feet on the pavement.  Every time he heard echoes of their gasps, he quickened his pace; until he couldn’t see anything but the blur of the street and he couldn’t hear anything but the pounding of his footsteps.

What he couldn’t erase was the look on Bucky’s face when he saw Steve standing there, or the tone of his voice when he had called Steve a “fucking Boy Scout.”  

 _I don’t want him in my life_ , he’d said.

He arrived at his apartment a sweaty mess.  He downed a big glass of water and collapsed on the couch and closed his eyes against the sweat stinging them. 

Bucky had—  

No.  The man who had been Bucky.  Steve guessed he’d better get used to thinking of that man as Barnes, because Bucky would never say those things about Steve.  His best friend was gone.  Barnes was what was left.  And even though he was recovering from a decades-long stint as a brainwashed assassin whose identity had been stolen from him, he fit into this world better than Steve did.  He was making friends and seducing lady assassins and settling in to a good life, and Steve—

Steve had done his best to adjust, but he’d been treading water and he knew it.  Then just like in a story, his best friend was alive; and all Steve had to do was wait for him to heal.  They would anchor each other, just like they always had.

It hadn’t been easy for him to be shut out while the doctors and specialists had poked and prodded Bucky until he had a clean bill of health, but he had dealt with it as best he could.  Bucky hadn’t wanted him around; and he didn’t like it, but he had tried to respect his friend’s wishes.  Well, his friend had gotten better.  But he had never come around to wanting to see Steve again.

Steve was used to taking a hit.  That was who he was.  He took hit after hit, but he got up again until his legs wouldn’t hold him anymore.

Seemed like he might have reached that point.  

He showered and pulled on a t-shirt and boxer shorts and went to bed, but he couldn’t sleep.  After a while he gave it up and got up to heat some milk.  He sat at the table with his cup of steaming milk and stared at the grain in the kitchen cabinets.  He didn’t think he could face either Natasha or—Barnes; Steve had to stop thinking of him as Bucky; it was _Barnes_ —any time soon.  It wasn’t fair to Natasha, but that was the way it was.  And he guessed that was exactly what Barnes wanted.

He stared at the cabinets a long time before getting up and sitting on the couch with his computer.  He wasn’t great with it, but he could get by well enough.  

He’d lived in Brooklyn all his life except for that year in D.C.  But after Loki and the Chitauri, he’d taken his bike and headed south until he ended up in Philadelphia, and then back northeast to Boston, and that had been good—seeing some of the country.

He’d always wanted to do it again, and he was due some time off.

The other Avengers might not like it, but that was too bad.  Tony could take the lead while Steve got his head sorted.  He wouldn’t be much good in a fight when he was like this anyway.

He found a map of the U.S. and studied it for a while before printing a map of his tentative route and erasing his browser history.  He got up, packed a bag, and wrote two notes.  One was for his landlady to tell her he’d be on vacation for a while.  The rent came out of his bank account automatically, but it was only courteous to let her know he’d be gone.  The other note was for Stark, to let the Avengers know he was taking a break.  He didn’t want to be found.  He didn’t want company.  If they knew he’d gone willingly, they might leave it.

He turned off the heat and threw out anything from the fridge that was perishable.  His computer and phone he left on the table.  He’d get a new phone on the road, one that couldn’t be traced.  He wouldn’t be able to use his debit card without leaving a trail, but he didn’t have to go to the bank. He’d grown up during the Great Depression, and he didn’t quite trust banks.  Oh, he had a bank account; but he also had a stash of cash in his apartment safe.  He took it all.

He slung his bag over his shoulder—the one that hid his shield from casual observers.  He didn’t plan to need it, but he wasn’t going to take it back to Stark Towers right now, and he couldn’t leave it sitting in an empty apartment either.  He locked the door to his apartment and went to pick up his bike.  The letters he dropped in the mailbox downstairs on his way out.  He should have a couple days before Stark got his letter.  That should be enough of a head start.  A part of him was looking forward to testing his ability to drop off the map with an expert like Natasha searching for him.  It’d be nice if she’d just let him go, but he didn’t think she was made that way.  He didn’t have her permission to take a leave of absence, so she was going to try to find him.

He was on the road before dawn and in Chicago by eight that night.


	2. The Windy City and Beyond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve gives himself a makeover--which leads to people viewing him in some ways that surprise him. Also in this chapter: he becomes not only a fan of Chicago, but also of the Cubs.
> 
> What? It could happen! Please, people, work with me here--it's time for a little suspension of disbelief...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A word of warning: Steve uses some language that was commonplace during the 1930s and '40s but might offend modern sensibilities. His intention is not to insult anyone; these are the words he heard used when he was growing up.
> 
> Also--if I can manage it, I'm going to put up a couple before and after pictures of [Steve's makeover/disguise](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/89167038164/so-the-first-picture-is-cap-as-he-appears-in) on my tumblr for those who are interested.
> 
> You can find me at [salviag.tumblr.com.](http://salviag.tumblr.com)
> 
> Lastly: I use some settings in this fic that I have been to in RL. Some I have only been to via Internet Magic, and sometimes I have tweaked RL sites to meet my needs. In particular: I have never been to the EagleBOLT bar in Minneapolis. I started with what I could find out online, and I took some creative license with some of it.

***

_March 1st-March 10th_

Steve found a hotel room in downtown Chicago with a Walgreen’s and a shopping mall within walking distance.  An optometrist had an office in the mall, and a sign in the window said walk-ins were welcome.  He’d go back the next day for that, but that night all he had time to do was buy a phone before the Radio Shack closed.

Then he went back to his hotel room, took out the box of hair dye he’d bought at the drug store and read the instructions carefully.  An hour later, a guy with dark brown hair looked out of the mirror at him.  It made even more of a difference than he had hoped it would.  The glasses he wore when he didn’t want to be recognized helped, too, and with the beard he was planning to grow, and the next day’s visit to the optometrist…  He was starting to look like a completely different guy.  After the beard was in, he might even be able to slip by facial recognition software, though he didn’t plan to put that to the test if he could help it.

Just before bed he texted Sam with his new phone number, though he asked him not to pass it on to anyone else or use it unless there was an emergency.

 _I could use a little peace and quiet_ , he wrote.  _Gone fishin’_.

He was waiting at the optometrist’s before they opened, and he walked out pleased with what he saw in the mirror.  Brown eyes and hair made a big change in his appearance.  He slipped on his dark-rimmed glasses.  Even better, but…  

Stark said he dressed like someone’s grandpa.  Most of what he wore was stuff he might have worn in 1944.  Steve hadn’t much wanted to adjust to a more modern style.  He’d stuck to what he felt comfortable in.  But if he didn’t want his clothes to give him away, he’d have to fix that.  

Stark rubbed him the wrong way a lot, but this was the kind of thing he was good at.  Steve wished he could ask for his advice.  _What’s a good look for an old timer trying to fit in this newfangled future?_   He couldn’t dress like Stark did.  Stark either wore sharp suits or clothes that looked a step away from the rag pile.  Neither would sit well with Steve.

As for the other guys he knew…  

Bruce wore purple shirts under his sport coats.  Clint wore purple too; he guessed guys did that these days.  Steve tried to picture it for himself, but…  It might not be ’44 anymore, but he would have to ease into something like that.  In 1944 wearing purple had suggested something to people that Steve didn’t want to convey.

He might feel comfortable in the kind of thing Sam wore, but it wasn’t different enough from what he usually wore to be an effective disguise.

He looked at his khaki pants, his white t-shirt, and brown leather jacket in the mirror.  He pictured them all black.  

Now that—maybe he could do that.

He went to Macy’s, took a deep breath, and headed in.  When he came out, he felt like an odd cross between Nick Fury and the Winter Soldier.  He looked different all right.  But as long as he didn’t look in a mirror, he didn’t feel as itchy in his skin as he had expected.

That afternoon, Steve went to the Art Institute of Chicago.  He never knew how to explore a museum, so he did it differently every time; but here he had an agenda.  

Edward Hopper hadn’t painted _Nighthawks_ until Steve was already in the Army.  But as a young art student, he’d seen some of Hopper’s work at the Whitney; and _Nighthawks_ had been in some art history books he’d read after he came to the future.  It had struck him immediately.  He appreciated the improbability of it:  one of the most famous American paintings of all time, created during his lifetime by a New York artist; and he never had a chance to see it.  Even if he’d still been a civilian in Brooklyn he might never have seen it before the Art Institute of Chicago bought it; he’d read that it was only at Rehn’s for a month.

He was going to see it now.  There was lots to see at the AIC, and he probably would have ended up here anyway.  But as far as he was concerned, _Nighthawks_ alone was worth the trip.

He couldn’t have said how long he stood in front of _Nighthawks_ as other visitors to the museum came and went, but he spent all afternoon at the Art Institute and the only galleries he visited were the galleries of American art since 1900 and the “contemporary” gallery.

Contemporary meant the 1940s to Steve.  This art?  This was the art of the future.  Sure was interesting, though.

Like that _Madawaska-Acadian Light-Heavy_ —boy, that was something else.  Why that one painting struck him so, he couldn’t say.  Art students saw plenty of nude bodies—as models as well as the subject of sculpture and paintings.  The coarseness, the strength of it—those appealed to him.  If he had been the curator, he would have hung it next to _Woman Descending the Staircase_.  They were almost complete opposites of each other, and he could have stared at both of them for hours.

Stark was one of the most generous men Steve had ever met, but he wasted a lot of his money on ridiculous stuff.  If he had all Stark’s money, he would have spent it on art instead of cars and doodad gadgets.  People needed more art in their lives.  Bucky, for example:  Bucky needed a painting by that Rothko fellow for his place.  Steve knew just where it should go.

When he read that Rothko had been born in Russia and immigrated to the U.S., Steve wanted to cry.

And he added the Rothko Chapel in Houston to his mental list.  Maybe not this trip, but someday he was going to see that.

On the other hand, Jackson Pollock’s stuff was a scam—a scam that had everybody running to be fleeced, apparently.  Steve gave his work less than a minute of his time.

New York City in the midst of the 1930s and early ’40s had been an astounding place to study art.  Unparalleled museums and galleries everywhere, and artists able to work during the Depression because of the WPA…  Steve could have spent a solid week visiting museums and galleries without ever going to the same one twice. 

But he had avoided the museums in New York when he woke up.  He didn’t know why.  He felt like he’d been starved for art and not realized until a feast was set in front of him.  He never wanted to leave the AIC.  The security guard had to usher him towards the exit as it neared five o’ clock.

Originally he’d meant to be on the road to Minneapolis by mid-afternoon—but there was so much he hadn’t been able to see in the Art Institute.  He’d only seen the tiniest piece of it.  And he wasn’t in any particular hurry.  As long as he was out of New York, he thought he could stay lost in Chicago for a while without anyone finding him. 

And since he had the unexpected evening in Chicago, he could catch a baseball game that night.   

Chicago turned out to be a great town.  In the end, he stayed ten days.  

He didn’t think about Bucky more than once or twice.

Yeah, that was a lie.  He thought about Bucky— _Barnes_ , he thought about _Barnes_ —all the time.  But when he did, he tried to distract himself instead of dwelling on it; and the Windy City was an interesting place.  The wind was a killer, but the city itself?  He could spend a lot of time here.  He caught three more Cubs games before he left, too.  He thought he might have found a new ball club.  The L.A. Dodgers?  Steve hadn’t been able to do it.  Just wasn’t right.  Same with the Mets, though he’d given that a real try.

The Yankees?  He’d rather go under the ice for another seventy years.

But when his throat felt tight and his stomach cramped and the wind blew so hard his eyes teared up, baseball was a good distraction.  So it was official:  Steve Rogers was a Cubs fan.  

He didn’t want to talk to people; but it wasn’t a problem, whether he was at a Cubs game or the Art Institute or one of those squat houses Frank Lloyd Wright designed. (There was a guy who built houses Steve would have found cozy _before_ Erskine’s serum.  He bumped his head a lot on that tour.)  Folks gave him a wide berth.  Eventually he realized it was his new clothes.  Big as he was, all in black, letting his stubble grow instead of clean shaven…  People seemed to find him intimidating.  He hadn’t been thinking about it at the time, but he had modeled his wardrobe after two scary people.

That probably said something about his life since he came out of the ice, didn’t it?  Spies and assassins registered as normal with him.

But he hadn’t minded people avoiding him near as much as he would have thought he would.  Maybe it would get old; but in a way, it felt like Bucky had died all over again.  He needed some space to mourn.  Steve was sure he’d be disgusted with himself when the cloud of self-pity lifted.  Grief had him too tight for the time being.

Before he left Chicago, Steve called Sam to check in.

“Cap!” Sam exclaimed when Steve said hello.  “How’s the fishing trip?”

“Not bad,” Steve answered.  “How’s D.C.?”

“Still standing,” Sam said.  “Natasha called to ask if I’d seen you, but otherwise I haven’t heard from the Avengers.”

“Good,” he said.  “I don’t want to put you in a bad position—but I thought someone should know how to reach me.”

“Nah, we’re good,” Sam said.  There was a pause.  “How long do you expect this fishing trip to be?”

Steve exhaled.  “I don’t know,” he replied.  “A while.”

There was another long pause on the line.

“You okay, Cap?” Sam asked.

“Sure,” Steve said.

“Uh huh,” Sam said.

“I’ll check in again next week,” he said.  “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” Sam said.  His voice was troubled, and Steve promised himself that the next phone call would be cheerier.  Sam didn’t need to worry about him.

Minneapolis was colder than Chicago, but it wasn’t as windy.  The itch on his face from the beard bothered him more than the weather.  Not exactly a beard yet, just stubble—but it was itchy as all get out and Steve felt unkempt.  He hadn’t let his beard grow for more than two days in his entire life and it was hard to get used to it now.

His first night in Minneapolis, when he asked at the hotel’s front desk where he could go for a beer, a burger, and a game of darts, the man at the desk looked him up and down and grinned.

“The Eagle’s only about five blocks away,” he said.  “Close enough to walk, if you don’t want to drive.”

Steve thanked him for the directions and headed out on foot.  The sun was setting, so the return trip would be in the dark; but Steve hadn’t thought much about walking around Brooklyn after dark when he was so skinny he was almost breakable, and he didn’t think he’d meet much trouble here.  His definition of ‘trouble’ had changed since the war anyway, and then again when he woke up in the twenty-first century. 

So no, Steve wasn’t worried, unless it was about Natasha—and Clint, maybe, if she wheedled him into keeping her company—finding him before he was ready.  He thought Sam and Stark would understand about needing some time, at least for a while; and he didn’t think Bruce would risk it unless he thought Steve was in danger.  Who knew what Thor would think; but he was in Asgard for the foreseeable future, so it didn’t much matter.  

And Buck— _Barnes_.  It hurt and it probably always would hurt some, but Barnes wouldn’t care and wouldn’t miss him.  Maybe he’d help bring Steve in if Natasha asked him to.  Otherwise?  

 _Fucking Boy Scout_ , he’d said.  _I don’t want him in my life._  

Those weren’t the words of someone who’d spend five minutes looking for his phone number, much less chase him across the country.  The days Bucky wouldn’t have given up until he’d found Steve were long gone, and he needed to remember it.  He intended to stay away long enough for the pain to fade to a bearable ache.

He didn’t have any idea how long that would take.

So he was a little glum when he reached the Eagle.  It wasn’t busy, but maybe it would pick up after a while.  It wouldn’t be the first time he’d played darts against himself if it didn’t.  He sat at the bar and looked at the menu.  The bartender gave him a few minutes before coming over.

“What can I get you?” he asked.  He was wearing some sort of harness made out of leather straps and metal rings instead of a shirt.  Steve tried not to stare.  He hadn’t seen anything like that since he woke up, not even in New York City, where some people wore pretty unusual stuff.  For his part, the bartender didn’t hide that he was staring right back.  He had a half smile on his face as he gave Steve that same up and down look the guy from the hotel had.

“Miller High Life and a burger and fries,” Steve said.

“How’d you like that burger cooked?” the bartender asked.

“Medium rare,” Steve answered.  

The bartender smirked as he handed Steve his beer.  “Name’s Chris if you need anything else,” he said.  He gave Steve another one of those long, evaluating looks.  “Anything.”

“Thanks,” Steve said.

Chris waited a moment, sighed, and headed down the bar to take care of some other guy’s drink.  Steve looked around as he waited for his burger.  He couldn’t tell why the guy from the hotel had sent him here right off.  This wasn’t one of those sleek places Stark liked, but it wasn’t much like the kind of place Steve preferred either.  The music was too loud and the nudity on the TV so raunchy that Steve felt uncomfortable—and he’d been in the Army.  

‘Course, he didn’t like the sports bars either—too bright, too many TVs everywhere, and again—too loud.  

In the end it didn’t matter what kind of bar it was.  The music was never the Howling Commandos, tipsy and singing a little out of tune; and it was always too loud.  

Steve sighed.  Stark was right.  He should feel like he was a young man, but he thought and acted like the ninety-six year old codger he was.

Chris brought him his burger and waited until he’d had a bite.  

“How is it?” he asked.

Steve swallowed as he nodded.

“Good,” he said.  He wasn’t just saying it; it wasn’t a bad burger.  He dipped one of the thick fries in ketchup and took a bite.  Those were good too.  He nodded again, and Chris smiled.

“Glad to hear it,” he said.  He gestured to Steve’s nearly empty beer.  “You want another?”

“Sure,” Steve said.  “No rush, though.”

“Back in a bit,” Chris replied.  He went to tend to the people who had slowly begun to trickle into the bar—still mostly men.  Steve wondered if this was kind of a rough place.  It didn’t seem like it, but he thought there should be more ladies and he couldn’t think why else they would stay away.  Back in the ‘40s ladies wouldn’t have gone into a place where you could see something like the naked guys on the TV; but lots had changed since then, and women seemed unfazed by all kinds of things his mother would have fainted to see.  Steve had gotten used to a lot of it, and things like the naked pictures or people pierced in all kinds of places…those things he’d learned to look the other way and not let it bother him.  Nobody was getting hurt, and that was what mattered in the end.

And Chris had been friendly, when the bartenders at a dive who had to expect trouble would have stayed stiff with a stranger; so probably it was just Steve’s ’40s sensibilities raring up.  

But boy, a lot of the guys coming in were big guys.  Not all of them.  But enough.  And some of them seemed pretty tough, too.  There were lots of straps—like that thing Chris the bartender wore—and some chains, and lots of leather, most of it with studs or buckles that didn’t do anything, and lots of black.  Some of it reminded him of the Winter Soldier’s kit.  That was probably why the desk guy at the hotel had sent him this way.  In his new gear, he fit right in with those fellows.

Though—Steve stiffened.  Not everyone was wearing black or leather or both.  A couple of the guys coming through the door now…  They were wearing Army uniforms, but Steve could tell from their bearing that those two hadn’t spent day one in the Army.  He set his jaw and turned away.  Now that bothered him.  It bothered him more than all the guys who for some inexplicable reason had taken off their shirts after they walked through the door.  He didn’t like it when civilians dressed in fatigues, playing around like they were some kind of costume.  It didn’t seem respectful.  But it wasn’t worth starting a fight about it, either.  

He could feel eyes on him, though—lots of eyes.  Everybody in this place was watching him; when ever since he changed his look in Chicago, people couldn’t get away fast enough.  Not these guys.

Bucky used to say he was a brawler in the body of a bookworm.  Steve had always replied that he didn’t look for fights; he just couldn’t walk past a bully.  Wasn’t his fault everybody fought with their fists instead of words out of books.  He might have a chance at a book fight.

Shoot.  He didn’t want to think about Buck.

Chris raised an eyebrow as he returned with Steve’s beer.

“Something wrong with the burger?” he asked.  “You’re glaring at it.”

Steve shook his head and took another bite to prove it.  Chris waited until he’d swallowed.

“You sure?” he asked.  “‘Cause you weren’t exactly cheerful when you walked in the door, and now you’re worse.”

Steve shook his head and shrugged.

Chris waited.  A few customers gestured to get his attention, but he waved them off.

Steve sighed and tilted his head towards the two guys in uniforms.

“It’s disrespectful,” he said.  “And it’s grating on me.  But I won’t cause any trouble.”

“Ah,” Chris said.  “One of those, are you?”

“One of what?” Steve asked, but the bartender had moved on to tend to the other customers.  He was out of place again.  He did his best to ignore the feeling that people were staring at him, finished his burger and fries and signaled Chris.

“Can I get some darts?” he asked.

“Sure thing,” Chris said.  He fished under the counter for the darts.  Steve took them, giving Chris his deposit and a little extra before heading towards the dart boards.

One of the dart boards was being used, but the bar wasn’t busy and most folks were dancing, so the other board was available.  He was only a mediocre player, but he had fun playing; and it was an interesting challenge to throw the darts lightly enough that they didn’t go too deep through the board into the wall.  So he ignored the itchy feeling being watched gave him and tried not to embarrass himself.  He wasn’t sure how successful he was.  If Stark could see him, he’d never live it down.  Stark didn’t let any opportunity to poke at Steve’s foolishness go by.

After a handful of practice rounds, he retrieved his darts and turned to find a guy waiting for him at the throwing line.

“Man, you suck,” the guy said.  He wasn’t completely bald yet, but he was a good way there.  What hair he had was salt and pepper, cut close to his head.  He had a goatee a lot like Stark’s.  A little classier, maybe.  The words “Bear Hug!” were printed on the gray t-shirt he wore.

“Yeah,” Steve agreed.  “Darts isn’t really my game.  I have a couple friends who are lots better at this kind of thing.  I have fun just messing around, though.”

“Your friends never give you lessons?” the guy asked.

Steve shook his head.

“I never asked,” he said.  “Work takes a lot of time.  And—I don’t know; we’ve had downtime.  I probably could have asked.  Just didn’t think about it.”

“Well you’re a disgrace to the game,” the guy said.  “Move over.  Let’s see if we can’t fix that—at least enough that no one will laugh at you next time you play.”

Steve smiled.  “I’m not sure that’s possible, but I’m glad for the help,” he said.  He extended his hand.  “I’m Steve.”

“Hansen,” the man replied.  He clasped Steve’s hand, his grip steady and strong.  “All right.  First thing is, your elbow’s too far out from your body.”  Hansen grabbed Steve’s arm and maneuvered it into the position he wanted.  Steve laughed and let him.

Hansen turned out to be a decent instructor—more patient than Steve would have thought from his first words and good at explaining what Steve should be doing differently.  He teased, but he never crossed the line into insulting or rude.  He was a little free with his hands; but when he touched Steve, it was always to move his arm or change the way his hand held a dart.  And amazingly, Steve was showing some improvement in his game.  He wasn’t anywhere near good enough to beat Hansen, but he had fun trying; and whenever he flubbed it up, Hansen took a moment to show him what he needed to change.  After a while, Steve became aware that they’d attracted an audience.  But they were a relaxed bunch, willing to wait and watch while Hansen coached Steve.

“Do we need to take a break?” Steve asked.  “There’s getting to be a crowd waiting.”

Hansen shook his head.

“Nah,” he said.  “None of those guys want to play.  They’re just watching.”

“C’mon,” Steve said.  “Watching you teach me how to throw darts?  That’s gotta be boring.”

Hansen had been getting ready to throw, but he let his arm fall and stared at Steve.

“Are you kidding me?” he asked.

“What?” Steve responded.

Hansen rolled his eyes.

“They’re not watching me teach you a proper darts game instead of whatever the hell you call what you were doing before,” he said.  “They’re watching you.”

Steve forced himself to stay blank-faced.  He had known people had been watching him all night.  Had someone recognized him?  

“Maybe I’d better go,” he said.

Hansen raised his hands in surrender.

“Relax, big guy,” he said.  “No one’s gonna jump you if you don’t want to be jumped.”

Steve hesitated.

“I don’t want any trouble,” he said.

“Who said anything about trouble?” Hansen asked.  “You’re awful sensitive about people staring for a guy who looks like you do.”

“I—yeah, I’m used to people staring,” Steve said.  “But it’s different when I’m not working.”

Hansen’s eyes gleamed and his smile turned a little wicked.

“What is it you do exactly?” he said.

Steve hesitated.  He’d walked right into that one.

“I thought maybe you recognized me,” he said.

Hansen looked him up and down, nice and slow, just like the bartender and the guy from the hotel had.

“I would not forget seeing you,” he said.  His tone of voice was…  Oh.  Steve’s cheeks grew hot.  

He means—  They’ve _all_ been—  

He looked around at the crowd, and the bar in general, and—

Yeah.  This was not a regular neighborhood bar.  

He felt like the only USO girl at one of the big camp shows during the war.  What an idiot he was.  All those naked guys on the TV, all those guys taking their shirts off, and Steve hadn’t clued in until just then.

Though the guys had been pretty well-behaved, considering.  Nobody had hassled him, just looked.  And he’d had fun, throwing darts with Hansen.  Though thinking about how handsy Hansen was—Steve was a little uncomfortable now that he knew Hansen was queer, but he hadn’t touched Steve anywhere private and he hadn’t lingered.  He’d moved Steve’s shoulder or arm or hand the way he wanted it, and then he’d let go.  

The burgers weren’t bad, either.

Yeah, knowing he was in a queer bar made Steve’s stomach squirm a little, but this wasn’t a bad place.  He’d felt fine until he’d realized.  He did have some idea that things were different these days for guys like these than they’d been in his time.  It was one of those things that had overwhelmed him right at the beginning, when he was fresh from the ice.  He hadn’t paid too much attention to it—first he was mourning, and then there had been alien invasions.  And everything had been so different.  Maybe there’d been signs everywhere and he’d not understood them.  

None of these guys were fairies.  Nothing girly, no lipstick.  Society’s cues had clearly changed since he’d gone under the ice, and he’d misunderstood.  He could see it now, though.  These guys weren’t hiding anything, and they didn’t seem scared of being caught.  He looked around.  None of them were what he would have expected.  Maybe that was why it had taken him so long to catch on.  He liked to think he wasn’t stupid.

“Are you blushing?” Hansen seemed amused.  “What is it you do again, that you thought someone might know you?”

 “Just kidding,” Steve said.  “No reason for anyone to know me.”

“Not on TV or something?” Hansen asked.  “Mister Gay USofA?  I heard he was a Marine in 2014.  You definitely have that military air.”

“I was in the Army,” Steve said.  “Nothing wrong with the Marines, but not for me.  And I’ve never heard of Mister Gay USofA.”

“I’d vote for you,” someone in the good-natured crowd said to friendly laughter.  “You should think about it.” 

Steve ducked his head.

“Shit, you _are_ blushing!” Hansen said.  “That is the sweetest thing I’ve seen in a long time.”

“I think we better let some other guys have the dart board,” Steve said.

“C’mon, soldier,” Hansen said, reaching up to hook his arm around Steve’s neck.  “I’ll buy you a drink, and you can tell me how you got out of the Army still able to blush like that.”  Steve chuckled weakly and allowed Hansen to pull him over to a table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who are interested, [here is the artwork](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/89265525363/the-artwork-steve-views-at-the-art-institute-of) from the Art Institute of Chicago that Steve mentions in this chapter. If you want more, stop by tumblr.salviag.com!
> 
> Or, you know, the Art Institute of Chicago's website... (to which I have failed several times now to add the fancy link) But here it is: www.artic.edu


	3. Making a Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reminder that Steve’s language and beliefs about sexual orientation and identity are influenced by the time in which he grew up. Like several others in this fandom, I owe my knowledge of almost every detail regarding gay life in NYC during this time to George Chauncey’s "Gay New York: Gender, Urban Culture, and the Making of the Gay Male World 1890-1940." Any mistakes I made in this are my mistakes.
> 
> On a related note: in case you missed it in the tags or the hint in the first chapter—towards the end of this chapter is where we start to see the impact of Steve’s being a practicing Roman Catholic. I’ve not seen it much in other fic, but I stand by this as Marvel canon—as well as my interpretation of how that influences Steve’s beliefs. This is going to be a Big Thing in the story, y’all—so here’s your fair warning.
> 
> And I’m not going to bore everyone with my decision process regarding placing Steve’s old home in the Vinegar Hills neighborhood. It doesn’t impact the story much. But I’ll put something on my tumblr in a bit for those who are interested, and maybe some links to the art Steve saw at the AIC in chapter two.

 

***

 

_March 10th_

“Where were you stationed?” Hansen asked after they were settled with a couple beers.

Steve nearly answered “Europe” before he realized that would be tricky to explain.

“I was part of a commando strike force,” he said instead.  “I wasn’t stationed so much as—we had a list of strategic targets to take out, all over the map.  And then I got out right after we completed our mission, so…”

“Uh huh,” Hansen said.  “Special Forces?”

“Not exactly,” Steve replied.  “It was pretty informal to start.  We didn’t have a lot of training or anything; we were just—  Well, we had a good mix of skills for what we were doing, though one of my friends—“  Steve stuttered to a stop and took a deep breath before continuing.  “My friend said mostly what qualified us to join up was being completely nuts.  And that I in particular was too dumb to back down from a fight.”

“You can’t tell me shit that isn’t classified, can you?” Hansen asked.  He laughed and took a swig of beer.  “Now I really want to know what you were up to.”

“It’s not that interesting,” Steve said.  “Lots of waiting around, mostly.”

“I’ve heard that,” Hansen said.  “War is boredom and waiting interspersed with moments of confusion, terror, and pure adrenaline rush.” 

“That’s a fair description,” Steve said.  He met Hansen’s eyes and tried to smile.  Hansen’s returning smile was wry and a little sad.

“My nephew spent two tours in Helmand Province,” he said.  “When he came back…  It wasn’t easy for him.  Or for any of us.  Soph—my sister—used to say she worried he’d get himself killed while he was over there; and then he came home, and she was still worried about it.”

Steve nodded.  He drained his beer and wondered how he could get out of this conversation.  Sometimes civilians thought it was easy to talk about war.  And in a way, Steve was lucky.  He’d read about the wars that the U.S. had been involved in between his time and this one.  No one said World War II should never have been fought.  Instead they called his generation the “Greatest Generation.”  

Steve didn’t know about that.  People were good and bad and in between no matter when they were born or where they lived.  But the evil that Hitler had done—they’d been a part of stopping that, even if it hadn’t been all of what they’d set out to do; and the future remembered them kindly for it.

The reception the vets coming back from Vietnam had gotten…  It broke Steve’s heart.

But Hansen collected his empty, went back to the bar, and returned with a fresh beer for each of them before Steve could extricate himself.

He could change the subject, though.

“I thought I’d spend a few days here before I moved on,” he said.  “What do you recommend?” 

“Not from the Twin Cities, then?” Hansen asked.

“Nah,” Steve replied.  “Brooklyn born and bred.”

“Well, there’s plenty to do here; it depends on what you want to do,” Hansen said.  “You much of a shopper?  Most tourists like to see the Mall of America.”

Steve shook his head fervently, and Hansen laughed.

“Yeah, me neither,” he said.  “What do you like, then?  Shows?  Skiing?  Skating?  Museums?  Architecture?”

“Is there a good art museum here?” Steve asked.  “I’d like that.  And something outdoors would be good, but I’ve never skied.  And the last time I tried ice skating, I was a kid and I only lasted about five minutes on the ice.  I’m more of a runner.”

“My nephew runs,” Hansen said.  “He likes the Greenway or the Lakes.  I think Pike Island has a trail that’s only about three miles if you want something shorter.”

“No, longer’s good,” Steve said.  “And something to look at—I don’t mind running a loop a few times if the view’s good.”

“Try the Lakes then,” Hansen said.  “That’s my part of town.  I don’t run much, but a walk around the Lakes is nice.  And like I said, my nephew runs them a lot.”

“Thanks,” Steve said.  “I’ll do that.”

“And there are trails along both sides of the river with plenty of bridges to cross, so that has the potential to be a good long run,” Hansen said.  “Long as you want to make it.”  He took a swig of beer.  “What’s on the itinerary after Minneapolis?”

“Mount Rushmore,” Steve said.  “After that—I’m not sure.  I’m headed to the West Coast, but it’s a big country.  There’s a lot to see between here and there.”

“There’s a whole lot of nothing, too,” Hansen said.  “Hope your car’s reliable.”

“I’m on my bike,” Steve said.

Hansen frowned and pointed his beer bottle at him.

“I’m assuming when you say bike, you mean motorcycle,” he said.  Steve nodded.  “You do know it’s something like 600 miles from here to Mount Rushmore, right?  On a scale of crazy from sky diving to BASE jumping, I’d say soloing that in March is round about running the bulls.”

“I don’t mind a long ride, especially through quiet country,” Steve said.

“Yeah, well.  There’s quiet, and then there’s South Dakota,” Hansen said.  “I’m not sure you understand just how empty the miles in between Sioux Falls and Rapid City are, city boy.  And the weather this time of year is usually snowy.  What made you decide March was a good time to go see Rushmore?”

Steve sighed and shook his head.  Hansen frowned at him.

“You better check the weather before you go,” he said.  “Maybe you Brooklyn boys don’t respect the cold or snow, but out here we know what they can do.”

“Believe me when I say I know cold,” Steve said.  “But I plan to watch the weather.  Riding in a blizzard’s miserable.”

Hansen shook his head.

“I hope you’re better on a motorcycle than you are at darts,” he said.  “If you get into trouble…  You should have cell service if you stay on the highway, so you can call someone; but only the cities are going to have any kind of rapid response team.”

“I’m not reckless,” Steve said.  “And I’m pretty tough if I do have a problem.”

“You are either straight up lying or delusional,” Hansen said.  “I can believe you’re tough all right; but you don’t seem stupid; and riding from here to Mount Rushmore, alone, in March—“  He shook his head.  “It’s reckless or stupid or both.” 

“Hansen, we’re reaching the point where I tell you to mind your own business,” Steve said.  “Tell me about that art museum.”  

Maybe sometimes he was a little reckless, but he was a lot stubborn all the time.  Hansen wasn’t going to change Steve’s mind anytime soon; and if they kept talking about it, one of them was going to get mad.  Hansen leaned back in his chair and frowned at Steve, but he let him change the subject.  

Art wasn’t Hansen’s thing, but he knew enough about a couple of museums to make Steve want to go to both of them.  And he listed some of the local architecture Steve might check out, too.  It was more than enough to fill Steve’s time in the Twin Cities, and Steve was feeling pretty genial despite their earlier argument.  

He had left New York so he could put some distance between him and Bucky while he came to terms with losing his friend for the second time.  But he had needed to get away for a different reason for some time.  The way Hydra’s cancer had grown inside S.H.I.E.L.D.—without anyone even _noticing_ —it had wounded something in his core.  He’d put that on hold because his first priority had to be finding Bucky.  But without faith that the government would do the right thing and without Bucky…  Steve had been adrift since he woke from his long sleep, and he had even less to hold him steady now.

But a nation was more than its government.  And Steve loved America—its people, its land, its dream…  Maybe he could anchor his soul to that.  And maybe having art back in his life would make it worth it.

Captain America stood for some pretty fragile intangibilities, but that didn’t mean that freedom wasn’t real.  It was just hard.

And it was lonely.  Boy, was it lonely.  Nobody could replace Bucky.

But he’d made some connections in Sam and Natasha, so that was a start.  His relationship with Natasha might be strained for a while.  He couldn’t begin to guess how long it would take before he didn’t blush like a school girl when he saw her.  But it would recover with time.  That wasn’t going to happen with B— _Barnes_.

And he’d come to the Eagle for a burger and a game of darts, and he thought he might be on the path to friendship with the blunt, pushy man sitting across the table.  He liked Hansen’s doggedness. 

Well, doggedness was one word for it.  As it turned out, Hansen had only been waiting to try another tack once Steve let his guard down.

“You should see Chicago,” he said during a lull in the conversation.  “It’s a pretty trip through farmland, mostly; so people actually live along the route without it being too populated.  The Art Institute is great, too.  Big collection, lots of quality art.  Loads of culture in Chicago.”

“I just came from Chicago,” Steve replied.  He had started to get exasperated.

“Okay,” Hansen said.  “Maybe not Chicago.”

“I appreciate the advice,” Steve said.  “But I know where I’m headed.”

“Not really,” Hansen disagreed.  “You said so not five minutes ago.  The West Coast—which is kind of a big place—and you don’t know everywhere you’re going along the way.  Seems to me you don’t know where you’re headed.”

“I think we’ve reached the end of this line of conversation,” Steve said.  Hansen narrowed his eyes.

“What are you looking for?” he asked.  “I don’t mean what sights do you want to see.  I mean:  what do you want to find?”

“I don’t follow,” Steve said.  He was afraid he did.  But much as he liked Hansen, he couldn’t tell a guy he had just met that he needed to find something good to hold tight to in this future world.  

He had known what he was doing when he dropped the shield.

“Yeah, you do,” Hansen replied.

Steve sighed.

“Yeah,” he admitted.

Hansen waited silently as Steve gathered himself to say more.

“Not so long ago a friend asked me what made me happy,” he said.  “I told him I didn’t know.”  He drained his beer and studied the empty bottle’s label rather than meet Hansen’s eyes.  “Thought I’d better find something.”

“Nothing in New York for you?” Hansen asked carefully.

“Not enough,” Steve said.

“So what is it then?” Hansen asked again.  “What’re you hoping for?”

Steve thought about it.

“That’s it,” he said.  “Hope.  A little hope and a little peace.”

“Not happiness,” Hansen said.

“Think I’d settle for not unhappy,” Steve replied.  Hansen leaned forward and tilted his head to catch Steve’s gaze.

“Listen,” he said.  “I get the feeling you know that you may not find what you’re looking for out on the road.  But giving yourself some time, finding some solitude and something new to see; that’s not a bad way to go about it.  It’s not a race, okay?  Give yourself some time to think and some space to just be, and you’ll get there.”  He paused for a moment; and when he spoke again, it was with a new energy.  “Have you thought about the North Woods?  It’s one of the most beautiful places in the world, and talk about peaceful…  There’re some great places to stay up there.  You can try skiing, fishing, snowmobiling—whatever appeals.  And you should stay a week or two.  Stay a month if you can spare it.  City boy like you should experience the untouched wilderness for once, anyway.  If the ice has melted enough for canoeing, you can explore the Boundary Waters.  You won’t believe the wildlife.  And if you spend a week here in the Twin Cities, a week or two up there—it’ll be April by the time you haul that perfect ass to Rushmore.  Still a fair chance of snow, but it’ll be a little warmer.”

“I’ve been told a time or two that I don’t know when to give up,” Steve said.  “But you may have me matched.  Fine.  Tell me about the North Woods.”

Hansen smiled and began to sell northern Minnesota like he was a tour guide.  Steve veered between amused and annoyed, but he had to admit that Hansen made a pretty good case for spending some time up there.  He didn’t think of himself as a city boy, but Hansen made him wonder if that’s because he hadn’t experienced much else outside the war.  

He could learn to ski cross country.  He’d always thought that would be fun.

He might actually go fishing on this “fishing trip” of his.

It had been a long time since he’d made drawing a habit, but he’d have the time and opportunity every day if he did this.  New subjects, too.

And Hansen was right.  Peace was what he needed most of all, and maybe a city wasn’t the best place to find it.

“You’ve convinced me,” Steve interrupted Hansen’s spiel about the joys of snowmobiling.  “Do me a favor and don’t gloat about it.” 

Hansen smiled widely.

“Why would I do that?” he said.  “I’m hoping for a second date.”

Before Steve left the Eagle, Hansen gave him his cell number and email address.

“You’re going to be glad you went,” he told Steve.  “Call me when you get back.  You can thank me for the dart lessons and my excellent advice by taking me out to dinner.”

“I’ll do that,” Steve said, laughing.

Maybe he couldn’t get drunk, but Steve felt loose and relaxed on the walk back to the hotel.  He’d enjoyed his conversation with Hansen.  It had felt good to be able to be a regular guy having a regular evening, and maybe make a friend.  He’d forgotten that he was in a queer bar talking to a queer guy until Hansen flirted with him as they parted.

When he’d been growing up, Brooklyn wasn’t the Greenwich Village; but queers had made spaces for themselves there, too—little pockets where a guy who liked guys instead of dames could go looking to meet another guy like him.  Some of them lived over in the nicer part of the Heights.  More of them flocked to the automats or parks or subway washrooms.  The fairies were hard to miss; but they ignored a kid with his mother, and Steve suspected his mom had steered him away from such groups if she could.  But Steve’s Brooklyn sat right next to the one the fairies lived in, close enough to bump shoulders.  Before his mom died, he’d never seen much more of it than a walk down Sand Street; but it was there.

After his mother’s death, he got in the habit of walking down by the East River at dusk.  His mom had always liked the river.  They had spent a lot of Sunday afternoons down at the Brooklyn Bridge Park when Steve was young.  They would have a picnic, then Steve would run around (as much as he ever could run) and his mom would stand at the river’s edge, looking at the water, until they walked home as the sun set over the city.

So Steve did it on his own for a while as a way to remember her.  He wandered around the park and the riverfront and over to Saint Ann’s church, all the places he and his mom had gone so many times.  

He was young and frail and poor and he looked it.  He didn’t expect a dame to take notice of a kid like him.  Ladies didn’t give him the time of day until after the serum—none but Peggy.  

But Steve hadn’t expected to get chased by a wolf, either.

Walking by Saint Ann’s every day was probably the start of it.  There were a group of guys who hung out around the intersection of Jay and Sands, close to the Navy Yard; and Saint Ann’s was pretty close to there.  Steve knew what they did—well, he was pretty sure he knew what they did, the fairies at any rate.  So he nodded when he went by; that was only polite.  But he gave them a pretty wide berth.  

They were so different from what a guy was supposed to be; Steve could understand why some folks didn’t think of them as real guys.  He couldn’t do that himself.  They had guy parts and that made ‘em guys in Steve’s mind.  When he saw them, he was a jumble of fear—of what, he didn’t know—and fascinated repulsion.  He knew what they did was wrong, but Father Benedict said it was always a sin to seek the pleasures of the flesh for any reason other than for “procreation within the sanctity of the marriage bed.”  And Steve was a young fellow like any other.  Sometimes when he was alone in his bed, he bit his lip and fought to remain silent as he touched himself.  Father Benedict said sodomy and fornication were worse, but Steve wasn’t without sin.

Still.  They’d had to sell his father’s watch when his mother got sick; but if he needed to know the time, he asked a regular fellow.  

That was before Steve knew that looking like he did:  small, pale, young; with regular features and soft skin and clean hands—some queers wanted that instead of lipstick or flash.  And just once, he asked the wrong guy for the time.  Steve owed those fairies; because when the wolf cornered him, Steve wasn’t strong enough to fight him off—but the fairies saw that he was in trouble, and they did it for him.

Seemed like that wolf had been watching Steve for a while, though.  He started showing up all along where Steve used to walk.  If Steve saw him, he made sure he stayed on main streets and in well lit areas; and the guy didn’t approach him again.  But he didn’t go away, either; he followed and he stared from a distance.  There wasn’t a way to make him stop, so Steve pushed down his fear and ignored him—until the wolf was leaning on another punk and Steve’s temper got the best of him.  He intervened, and the other kid ran off when he had the chance; and Steve realized too late that he’d been lured out of sight.

He’d gotten away, but only because he panicked and bit the guy like a little kid.  The wolf let go, and Steve ran.

He hadn’t ever told Bucky.  He wasn’t exactly proud of it.

But those fairies on the corner and that one molesting wolf—that was what Steve knew about queers.  And in different ways he’d been scared by both types.  Amiable conversation and a game of darts and a roomful of friendly but live and let live guys?  Guys who looked like guys?  He kinda liked it.

Even if some of them were a little too comfortable shirtless in public for Steve’s taste. 

The good Lord knew Steve hadn’t stopped touching himself; and he had a pretty hard time mentioning it when he went to confession, too.  He couldn’t exactly judge.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A picture of an image I've been using lately as inspiration for Hansen's character, with accompanying embarrassing confession.](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/89353687198/ill-post-chapter-four-of-like-a-cruel-mistress)


	4. Investigating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A word of warning: Bucky/James has a bit of a potty mouth. Some of you won’t even notice, I suspect; but I’m giving a heads up to those who might mind. If you do, I don’t even know what I’m going to tell y’all when we come to Bucky’s pov, though…
> 
> And I hope any Russian speakers will forgive my google Russian. "Translations" at the end. Mea culpa.

 

***

 

_March 2nd_

Talia didn’t think anything might be wrong until Steve had been gone for three days.  Perhaps it wasn’t kind to find his discomfiture amusing, but kindness wasn’t something she had much practice with.  And she doubted he had seen it, because she was better than that; but she had been mortified he caught her having sex with James.  For herself she didn’t care if he knew they’d slept together, and she didn’t care if he saw her body.  She could hardly be missish about one of her primary weapons.  But she respected Steve and cared what he thought of her; and from what Talia had observed, he was chaste.  Not that he was a prude.  For a man born in 1918, he had adjusted to modern times well.  Semi-public sex was just too much for him.

So JARVIS’ announcement that Steve had cancelled the Avengers’ meeting after he interrupted her and James?  Not a surprise.

James’ cruelty, on the other hand, surprised her.

“ _Chert_.  You hate him,” she said.  “I don’t understand why.”

“I don’t understand why the hell I was his friend in the first place,” James replied.  “Do you think he used to be fun?  Was it the serum or the Arctic ice that sucked it out of him?  Mostly what I remember is:  a.  he was sick a lot, and b.  I had to stop guys from beating him up a lot.”

“Don’t tell me if you don’t want to, but do me a favor:  don’t lie to me,” Talia told him.  “And show Steve some respect, please.  Whatever you may feel about him, he has saved your life and your sanity more than once.  You owe him that much courtesy.”

James crossed his arms and frowned at her; but very little intimidated Talia, and the Winter Soldier’s glare wasn’t on that list.  She confirmed that her clothes were neat and left the room.  She was already several floors down in the communal kitchen when JARVIS informed them that the meeting was cancelled.  Tony and Bruce wandered in less than five minutes later.

“I didn’t know the Capsicle could get sick,” Tony was saying.  “You’d think if he could catch a cold he’d have done it already.”

“He shouldn’t be able to,” Bruce replied.  “If he feels ill, than I would suspect some sort of attack rather than illness.  Poison, or exposure to radiation…”

“JARVIS, where is Cap?” Tony asked.

“Captain Rogers has exited Stark Towers,” JARVIS answered.

“Moving fast for the elderly and infirm,” Tony said.

“He’s not sick,” Talia said.

“Are you suggesting that our Intrepid Leader lied to us?” Tony asked.  “I don’t believe it.  Next you’ll tell us he’s snuck out to chop down a cherry tree.”

“He’s had a shock,” Talia said.  “He’s not lying so much as—obfuscating.”

Tony sobered slightly.  “Good shock or bad shock?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” Talia said.

“What happened?”  Bruce asked.

“None of your business,” Talia said, then relented.  “But there was nudity involved.”

“Good shock!” Tony smirked.  “So Cap got an eyeful and has gone home to take care of business?  Good to know the plumbing’s not entirely frozen.  I was beginning to wonder.”

“He’ll be back the day after tomorrow, and he won’t say a word about it,” Talia said.

“Or, you know, Monday,” Tony said.  “Capsicle’s pretty religious about keeping the Sabbath.”

“Good point,” Talia conceded.  “Also, terrible pun.”

She opened the refrigerator.  Were they entirely out of fruit?

Bruce rolled his eyes.

“I’m disappointed in you, Widow,” Tony said.  “You could have at least invited Cap to join you.  And taken pictures.”

“No, I really couldn’t,” Talia said.  She closed the refrigerator door and turned to leave.  “Put blueberries and bananas on the shopping list, will you, Tony?  Something healthy.  Someone keeps eating my fruit.”

“It’s a communal kitchen,” Tony called after her.  “It’s everybody’s food.”

“That’s what they always say,” Talia replied.  The elevator doors opened and she stepped inside before Tony could make another quip.  James was in the elevator.  She ignored him and pressed the button for Clint’s floor.

“Am I getting the silent treatment?” James asked.  Talia waited until the elevator doors closed before responding.

“Are we children?” she asked.

“Are we?” James asked.  “Because it seems like I said Daddy was a big ol’ bore, so you took your toys and went home.”

They reached Clint’s level, and the doors to the elevator slid open.  Talia stepped out, but she turned and placed her hand against the frame to keep the doors open while she spoke.

“Oh, James, I’m sorry,” she said.  “My toys just aren’t in the mood right now.  Go play with your own toys.”  She removed her hand and stepped back.

“But your toys are so much more fun!” James called through the closing elevator doors.  Talia smirked to herself.  He was amusing.  She missed Clint, but James would do until he was back.

But that was Friday, and Steve didn’t come in on Monday.  He hadn’t called anyone or responded to any texts, and calls to him went straight to voicemail.

“I’ll go by his place to check on him,” Talia told the Avengers who had gathered to confer.  “Make sure it isn’t anything serious.  Maybe he truly was ill Friday.”

James, who had been looking out the window at the skyline, apparently ignoring the discussion behind him, turned around.

“He can’t get sick anymore,” he said.  She raised an eyebrow at him.

“No, we don’t think so,” Bruce said.  “But not coming in on a weekday is unprecedented behavior for Steve, and so is being out of touch.  And he did tell JARVIS he was feeling ill.”

“When?  Friday?” James asked.  Talia nodded.  “So he could be sick, and he’s been alone at his place since Friday afternoon.  Why didn’t anyone check on him?”

“Why didn’t you?” Talia asked.

“I didn’t know he was sick!” James said.

“Well, I’m going to check on him now,” Talia said.  “Would you like to come along?”

James crossed his arms and scowled; but when she went to her car, he followed.

“If he is sick, bring him here,” Tony called after them.  “You can be the sexy nurse while Bruce and I figure out what’s wrong with him.”

James didn’t talk on the drive to Steve’s apartment.  Talia wasn’t particularly in the mood for conversation, but James…  It just seemed odd to her.  Steve didn’t answer her buzz, so Talia let them in.  

He wasn’t there.  James stood in the living room and frowned at the walls.  If he hated Steve so much, why had he come?  Talia sighed and walked past him to take a look around.

Steve’s phone was lying on the kitchen table.  She checked it.

“Battery’s dead on his phone,” she said, plugging it in to the charger. 

She poked around a bit, but Steve was so neat his place didn’t give much away.  She’d never seen his bed unmade no matter how much of  a hurry he was in.  Idly she went back to the kitchen and opened up his laptop.  That battery was dead too.

She found the charger in a drawer by the outlet, plugged in the laptop, started it up, and went to check on James.  He was in the same spot in the living room, still scowling at the walls.

“Do you have any suggestions?” she asked.

“For what?” James asked.

“For finding Steve,” she said.  “You have known him longer than any of us.”  He ignored that dig and started opening cabinets and drawers in the living room.  She left him to it and went to see if the laptop was responding yet.

First Talia checked Steve’s email.  None of the emails were anything unusual or interesting.  What _was_ interesting was that nothing received after mid-morning Friday had been read.  She checked the trash:  it was empty.  Next she checked his browser history:  it had been cleared.  Also interesting.  She hadn’t known Steve to bother before.  She closed the laptop, slipped it in her bag, and went to get James. 

 _Boyse moy_!

The living room was a mess.  The contents of every drawer were dumped out, the cabinets flung open, books dumped onto the floor…

“What are you doing?” she exclaimed.  James glared at her.  He was clutching a small ceramic bowl like he was going to throw it at her.

“Where does he keep his sketchbooks?” he asked.

“What?” she asked.

“His sketchbooks!” James said, gesturing widely.  “I can’t find them!”

“So you tossed his place?” she asked.

James threw the bowl at the wall.  It shattered and the pieces fell to the floor.

“Just tell me where he keeps his fucking sketchbooks, Natasha!” he said.

“ _Gebranyy mudak_!” Talia exclaimed.  “I don’t know, James!  I’ve never seen him with a sketchbook.”  She set her bag down with a sigh.  “I’m going to get the broom and dustpan.  Start cleaning this mess up.”

It was after seven by the time they’d restored order to Steve’s living room.  They’d done the best they could, but there was no hiding that someone had been there.  The bowl was gone, of course; but it was also impossible to put the books and papers away in their original order.  Maybe an ordinary person wouldn’t notice.  Steve would.

On the way out, they swung by Steve’s parking spot.  His motorcycle was gone, but that told them little more than the empty apartment had.  He wasn’t home.  They’d noticed.  All the motorcycle’s absence meant was that wherever he’d gone, it was not on foot or the subway.

James sulked until they were nearly back to the Tower.

“Would he have gone to a hospital?” he asked.  “He would have called someone, right?  You, or Stark?”

“I think if he was ill enough to go to the hospital, he wouldn’t be able to ride his motorcycle,” she replied.  “We can check some of the likeliest ones, though; he might have fallen ill while he was already out.  We should eliminate the possibility, at any rate.”

“Have Stark’s computer do that,” James said.  “And it can help you search Steve’s computer, too.”

“And what do you plan to do?” Talia asked.  She pulled into the garage and parked, then turned to look hard at James.  He was very interested for someone who three days ago was claiming he wanted nothing to do with Steve.

“I’m going down to the gym,” James said.  “I need to punch something.”

“I see,” she said.

“Fuck off,” he replied.  He got out, slamming the car door behind him, and stalked away.  She didn’t bother trying to catch up.

JARVIS checked the admittance logs of every hospital in the five boroughs while Talia made herself a salad and ran a program to retrieve Steve’s browser history.  He had been to Facebook and Twitter; the _New York Times_ and the _New York Daily News_ websites along with a handful of other news blogs; the National Parks Service website; over twenty art museums’ websites including the Smithsonian, the Metropolitan, the Art Institute of Chicago, the Getty, and DIA Beacon; Google, Google Maps, and Google Translate; a food blog or two; and several different pages on the School of Visual Arts NYC website.

Interesting.  She’d forgotten Steve had been an art student before he joined the Army.  She’d never seen him show any particular interest in art at all.  Yet James expected to find sketchbooks in Steve’s apartment, and Steve’s browser history confirmed a strong interest in art.  And perhaps the intention to apply to art school?  Captain America, artist, seemed ridiculous to her.  But she understood the impulse to start over all too well.

Before she put Steve’s laptop away for the evening, she opened up his contacts.  They  weren’t much sparser than her own, but she was less trusting than Steve.  It was rather sad for a man who liked people as much as he did.  Mostly it was people he worked with—the Avengers, or former S.H.I.E.L.D. agents.  Peggy Carter, Sam Wilson, and a Msgr. Robert Ritchie were the only other entries.  Talia gave up for the time being and headed to bed.

She woke up at four a.m. knowing something was wrong but unable to put her finger on it, only that they had missed something in Steve’s apartment.  After half an hour, she gave up on going back to sleep.  Her mind wouldn’t stop picking at whatever it was.  So she got up, dressed, grabbed her keys, and headed out.  On a whim she went up to James’  floor—the one Tony had intended for Steve.

He responded to her quiet knock by twisting the door knob and letting the door swing open a few inches.  She made no move to touch the door.

“It’s Natasha,” she said.  “Who do you think is going to attack you in Stark Tower?”  He pulled the door open.

“What do you want?” he asked.  “It’s not even five in the morning.”

“I’m going back to Steve’s,” she said.  “Want to come?”

“Give me a minute,” he said.  “Come on in.”

Talia stepped through the door into an extraordinarily minimalist space.  It wasn’t what she would have expected from either Steve or James.  Talia had chosen her own furnishings, and even had input into the layout and building materials for her floor.  Had Steve had no say in how Tony and Pepper furnished this floor?

James retreated into what she assumed was his bedroom to dress.

“Did you choose the furniture?” she called to him.  He emerged with a shirt in one hand and a pair of boots in the other.  Talia took a moment to enjoy the view.  No man of her acquaintance (except Steve) had such lovely abs.  And Steve was unlikely to show his off like this.

“No,” he said.  He set the boots down and pulled the shirt over his head.  “I don’t know; it was like this when I moved in.”

“Hmm,” she murmured.  “I didn’t think it was to your taste, but it doesn’t fit Steve either.  Why would Tony do that?  He likes to provoke Steve, but he did—does—want him to move in.”

James shrugged.  “I like it,” he said.  “It’s different, sure; but it’s calm.  And the day Steve moves in is the day I move out.”  He finished tying his laces and stood.  “Let’s go.”

Neither spoke again until they stood in Steve’s living room once more.

“All right,” she said.  “Something’s wrong but I can’t tell what it is.  Thoughts?”

“He doesn’t have any sketches on the walls,” James replied immediately.  “I noticed that right off.”

“Okay,” she said.  “What else?”

“I don’t know,” he said.  “But it doesn’t seem like Steve’s place without his drawings all over the walls.”

“Let’s look around again,” she said.  “You take the bedroom.  I’m going to start in the kitchen.”  He shrugged and disappeared through the bedroom door.  Talia went into the kitchen and started opening drawers and cabinets.  Steve’s dishes were a heavy hand-thrown pottery.  His silverware was a plain, classic style—also sturdy.  He had enough pots and pans to suggest that he cooked, and the pantry had flour, sugar, cornmeal…  Apparently he baked as well.

The only thing in the trash was the broken bowl from earlier.  She opened the refrigerator door.

“James!” she called.  “Come here!”  He appeared only moments later.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“That was fast,” she said.

“Nothing in the bedroom or bathroom,” he said.  “I was looking at the bookshelves in the living room again.”

“Well, look at this,” she said, gesturing to the refrigerator.  “What do you think?”

He stepped next to her and looked in the fridge.

“No milk, no eggs, no cheese, no meat, no produce,” he said.  “Nothing that would spoil.  He went out of town, and he doesn’t plan to be back for a while.”

“I agree,” she said.  “Look in the pantry.  No bread.  No open boxes of cereal.  There’s an open bag of walnuts, but it’s in the freezer.  He’s gone somewhere.  Willingly, I think.”

“You sure he’s gone willingly?” James asked.  

“Do you think someone could take Steve without any struggle?  Would they be likely to clean out the perishables from his kitchen?” she asked.  “Yes, I think he’s gone willingly.”  She sighed.  “But that he had time to do it himself, yet still didn’t call; that he left his phone…  I don’t like it.”

“So where would he go?” James asked.

“D.C., I suppose,” she said.  “That’s the only other place he’s lived, and the only people in his contacts that aren’t in New York live there.”

Calling Sam Wilson was probably the next step, but it was a little early in the morning for that.  Peggy Carter wasn’t going to be able to tell them much, and it would be cruel to worry her.  If she was able to understand that Steve was missing.  From a comment or two Steve had made after one of his visits, Talia thought her dementia had been growing worse.

They left Steve’s apartment the way they found it and went back to her car.  Talia took out her phone for a moment to check one last thing before they got back on the road.

“What are you doing?” James asked.

“There was one other person in Steve’s contacts I didn’t know,” she said.  “It was a Manhattan number, but I thought we should check him out.”

“Who is it?” he asked.

“M-S-G-R Robert Ritchie,” she said.

“M-S-G-R is ‘monseigneur,’” James said.  “Probably the priest where Steve’s been going to mass.”

“You haven’t gone with him?” she asked.  “Even once?”

“No,” he said.  “‘Opiate of the people.’”

“Oh, I bet Steve likes that,” she said.  “You’re right.  A Reverend Monseigneur Robert J. Ritchie is rector at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral on Madison Avenue.”  She closed the browser on her phone and pulled out into traffic that was surprisingly heavy for so early in the morning.  She was spoiled, living in the same building she worked in.  Her commute was all of six floors.  “Shall I drop you at the Tower?”

“You’re driving to D.C.?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“I’m coming,” he said.

“You’re very invested in this for someone who wanted Steve out of his life,” she said.

“Shut the fuck up,” James replied.

“I can see this will be a lovely trip,” she said.  “Do me a favor and take a nap.”

“Why are you being so pissy?” he asked.  “And for that matter, why do you care so much where Steve is?”

“He trusts me,” Talia said.  “And I like him.  We work well together.”

“Should I be worried?” James asked.  “I didn’t think he was your type, but…”

“ _Dayte mne pereryv_ ,” she said.

“I just like to know who the competition is,” he said.

“It doesn’t matter,” Talia told him.  “You don’t need any rivals to sabotage yourself.”

“Tasha, you wound me,” he said.

“I don’t answer to that,” she said.

“ _Zhestokaya zhenshchina_ ,” he replied.  “ _Russkaya zima dolzhna byt' tak kholodno_.”

“You would know,” she said.  She pulled her phone out of her bag and handed it to him.  “Do me a favor?  Call Tony and tell him Steve wasn’t at his place.  We’re taking the day to look for him.”

“It’s six a.m.,” James said.

“If he’s asleep, JARVIS will take a message,” she said.  “Tony’s a mother hen. If we don’t show up today on top of Steve’s disappearance, he’ll panic.”

“Fine,” he said.  He left a voicemail with JARVIS, dropped her phone back in her bag, and reclined his seat.  “Wake me when we get to D.C.”

“Sweet dreams,” Talia said.  

James didn’t bother to open his eyes.

“Not fucking likely,” he replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Boyse moy!_ My God!
> 
>  _Gebranyy mudak!_ Fucking asshole!
> 
>  _“Dayte mne pereryv,”_ “Give me a break,”
> 
>  _“Zhestokaya zhenshchina. Russkaya zima dolzhna byt' tak kholodno.”_ “Cruel woman. The Russian winter should be so cold.”


	5. The Search Begins

***

 

_March 3rd_

In general, Talia drove as fast as she wanted and flirted her way out of speeding tickets.  She planned to be in D.C. by 10:00 a.m., but she hadn’t considered that they were leaving New York at exactly the wrong time.  They hit rush hour traffic before they had even reached Baltimore.  She could only imagine what traffic from Baltimore to D.C. would be like.  She groaned and pulled off the highway.  James sat up and stretched as she parked in front of a 24 hour diner.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“Baltimore,” she said.  “At least, nearly Baltimore.  Time for breakfast.”

“Oh, good,” James said.  He hopped out of the car with an offensive skip to his step.  “You’re a doll, Natashenka.”

“No,” she said.

“I’ll get there,” he said.

“Better men than you have tried,” Talia told him.

“There’s a reason it’s called devilish charm,” James replied with a grin.

While waiting to order, Talia dug her phone out of her bag and called Sam.  There was no answer, but she didn’t leave a message.  She wanted to hear the tone of his voice when he answered, and she didn’t want him expecting her call.

“Nobody there?” James asked, and she shook her head just as the waitress arrived to take their orders.

“You’re not getting the blintzes?” James asked her after the waitress left.

“Am I a walking stereotype?” she responded.  “Anyway, they’re never the same.”

“I’m just saying, there are blintzes on the menu and you order an egg white omelette with a side of fruit,” he said.  “It’s sad.”

“Some of us don’t have quadrupled metabolisms,” she said.

“They think mine’s only twice what it was before,” he said.

“I weep for you,” she said.  He could make fun of her all he liked.  When her omelette came, it was delicious.  Just looking at his breakfast (chicken fried steak with white gravy, fried eggs, and a side of three pancakes drowned in syrup) made her queasy.

Traffic had cleared enough that she no longer felt the need to shoot everyone in her way by the time they were back on the road.  She was in a good mood as she parked in front of Sam Wilson’s townhouse.

“You think he’s home?” James asked her.

“Probably not,” she said.  “But let’s pretend we’re normal people and ring the bell.”

“You do that,” he said.  “I’m going to go around back so no one can sneak out that way.”  She rolled her eyes, but he was already gone.

She had predicted correctly:  no one answered the door, so she let herself in.  James was just closing the sliding glass entrance as she came into the room.

“Wait for a signal, would you?” she chided.  “You’re so impatient.”

“I heard you ring and no one answered,” he said.

“Fine,” she replied with some asperity.  “Try not to trash his living room.”

“I’m an assassin, not a spy,” James said.

“Are you not capable of putting things back where you found them?” she asked. 

There wasn’t much to find.  There was no luggage, no extra toothbrush, only one bowl and spoon on the drying rack and one mug in the sink.  James looked around a bit more while Talia booted up Sam’s computer.  Unlike Steve, Sam had a lot of names in his contacts; but the number listed for Steve was for the phone plugged into the charger in his apartment.  There wasn’t anything else to find.  She went into the kitchen to tell James.  He was frowning at a post it note on the refrigerator.

 _gone fishing_ , it read; and then there was a phone number.

“That’s a little odd, right?” James said.

“Maybe,” she said.  “Let me call him again.”

This time he answered.

“Hello, Sam,” she said.  “How’s my favorite fly boy?”

 _I thought I was your favorite fly boy_ , James mouthed.

 _Top ten on a good day_ , she replied the same way.

Sam sounded surprised to hear from her, which supported the evidence saying Steve hadn’t come to see him; but there was an undercurrent of something else, too.

 _I think he knows something_ , she mouthed to James.  _Listen_.  She turned on the speaker phone.

“Listen, Sam,” she said.  “I called because no one’s seen Steve since Friday.  Have you seen or heard from him?  I’m getting a little worried.”

“Haven’t seen him,” Sam replied.  James and Talia shared a skeptical look.  He was a better liar than Steve, perhaps; that didn’t make him a good liar.  He knew something all right.

“Damn,” she said.  “I was hoping he’d been in contact with you.  I hope he’s all right.”

“I’m pretty sure Captain America can take care of himself,” Sam said.  “Probably nothing to worry about.  But why don’t you give me your number?  If I do hear from him, I’ll let you know.”

“Good idea,” Talia said.  “I’ll send you Tony’s too in case you can’t reach me.”

“Tony Stark?” Sam asked.  “Iron Man Tony Stark?”

“The one and only,” Talia said.  “He likes to think he’s in charge when Steve’s not around.  Sometimes we indulge him.”  James pointed to the note on the refrigerator.  She nodded at him.

“Let him down easy, Miss Natasha,” Sam said.  “I’m glad you called me.”

“You were the first one I thought of,” Talia said.  “I have no idea where would he even go.  He doesn’t know anyone.  You’re the first friend he’s made outside of work.”

“Probably just wanted a little peace and quiet,” Sam said.  “Sometimes a man needs to get away.”

“So what would he do?” she asked.  “Oh, I know:  maybe he’s at a luxury spa.  How metrosexual of him.”

Sam laughed.  “Nah, he’s somewhere warm and sunny with a nice boat rocking quiet on the waves.  Got a fishing rod over the side, and he’s probably pulling his hat over his eyes to take a nap as we speak.”  James stabbed his finger at the post it again.  She rolled her eyes.  Did he think she was an idiot?

“Thanks,” she said.  “I feel better having talked to you.  We’ll have to get together next time I’m in D.C.  Or you should come see us in New York.  Tony would love to take a look at those wings of yours.”  She paused.  “I just wish I knew he was safe, you know?  I don’t have any idea where he could be!”

“Yeah, I know,” he said.  “Just remember he’s pretty tough.”

“Thanks, Sam,” she said.  “You’re the best.”  She disconnected the call and sent Sam her and Tony’s contact information before adding the _gone fishing_ number to her phone.  “Great,” she said.  “Ready to go?”

“Let me make sure I locked the back door,” James said.  “We headed back to New York?”

“Let’s stop by the FBI first,” Talia said.  “I’d like to run a trace on this number.”

“The FBI doesn’t like me,” James said.  “I go in there, I may never come out again.”

“Don’t be ridiculous if you can help it,” Talia replied.  “We’re not going in the front door.”

It was shameful how easy it was to break into the FBI’s D.C. headquarters.  If Talia didn’t find it useful to have access to their databanks and search engines on occasion, she’d chide them for it.  But in the post-S.H.I.E.L.D. era, Talia wanted this resource available; so noticing how sloppy their security was was the FBI’s problem.

A quick tap showed that the _gone fishing_ phone was in Chicago.  Talia was a professional, though; and a professional always confirmed her intel.  And she was already at the FBI.  She ran a search for Steve’s credit card and withdrawals from his bank account.  There was nothing—no record of any transactions since last Tuesday.

“Hmm,” she murmured.

James left off breaking into the office’s safe to look over her shoulder.

“What’d you find?” he asked.

“Steve hasn’t made any withdrawals,” she said.  “He hasn’t used his credit card, either; how is he funding this little jaunt?”

“What do you mean?” James asked.  “He’s using cash.”

“He left three days ago,” Talia said.  “How much cash do you think he keeps on hand?”

“You saw the safe at his place,” James said.  “How much do you think would fit in there?”

“James, that safe could hold twenty thousand dollars,” she said.

“If it’s in twenties, yeah,” he said.

Talia sucked in a breath.

“Why would he keep so much cash?” she asked.

“You ever seen a run on a bank?” James responded.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said.  “I’m calling Tony.”

“What do you expect Stark to do?” he asked as they exited FBI headquarters.

“He can bankroll the search for one,” she replied.  “I don’t have endless resources, and S.H.I.E.L.D. isn’t around to sign off on my expenses anymore.”  She paused to look at him.  James’ face was smooth, but she knew him well enough by now to know that he had the best poker face she’d ever seen.  He couldn’t emote falsely the way she could; but as he said:  he was an assassin, not a spy.  The Winter Soldier hadn’t been used for infiltration.  He had been a hammer, and emotion had got in the way as far as his handlers were concerned.  He didn’t show it if he didn’t want to.

Sometimes she wondered if he would like to express more emotion but couldn’t show it the way he been able to before the Winter Soldier.  Sometimes she wondered how much he felt at all behind that blank mask.

Other times, he seemed to be nothing _but_ emotion.  The man was exhausting.

“I can take you to the airport,” she offered.  “You didn’t commit to a cross-country chase.”

“Let’s see what Stark has to say,” he said.

They got in her car, and Talia turned the engine on so the heater could warm up before pulling out her phone.

“Widow,” Tony answered.  No preliminaries, no teasing…  Was he ever going to forgive her for the report on him she’d given Fury?  For a man with such a facile personality, he held a grudge well.

“Tony,” she said.  “Nothing in D.C., but we have a lead in Chicago.”

“This morning I got the nicest card in the mail,” Tony replied.  “The man even skips town politely, which is more than I can say for the two of you.”  Talia put the speaker phone on.

“What did it say?” she asked.

“The usual:  I have a mysterious top secret patriotic mission, and the rest of you would just get in my way.  Don’t call me, I’ll call you.”

“So we’re going to Chicago,” James said.  “Give Natasha some money so she doesn’t complain about the cost of the hotel.  I’ll try to keep room service to a couple hundred a night.”

“Did you not hear the last part?” Tony asked.  “He doesn’t want company.”

“Fuck that,” James said.  “ _Top secret solo mission_ is government speak for expendable.”

“Is this the guy who’s been giving Cap the silent treatment for six months?” Tony asked.  Talia had been wondering the same thing.

“That don’t mean it’s okay to leave a member of your team behind,” James replied.

“Fine,” Tony said.  “I admit it.  I made that first part up, about the mission,” he said.  “Can’t a guy have a little fun?  He said he was sick of our faces and he was taking a vacation.”

“Tony, what did he write exactly?  In his own words, please,” Talia said before James lost it and broke something.

“Fine, fine,” he said.  

_Dear Tony,_

_Ever since S.H.I.E.L.D. went down, I’ve been considering what the future holds.  I can’t ask you to continue to support the Avengers Task Force.  I’m not sure that we should be so closely associated with Stark Corporation anyway.  It’s not because of you.  Despite your freewheeling attitude, you are one of the most ethical men I know.  But I have to know where I stand on principle, and right now I’m not sure._

_I’m going to take some time away to think about what I need to do.  If I hear that the Avengers need me, I’ll be in touch.  Otherwise I’d better think this through on my own._

_You’re in charge while I’m gone.  Listen to Natasha’s advice, and try not to get into too much trouble without me.  (I was going to say don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, but I thought that’s like a red flag to a bull.  So I’ll leave it there.)  I trust you to do the job._

_Steve_

 

“That sounds more like Steve,” Talia said.  “I don’t like the timing of it, though.”

“I’m not thrilled about the short notice either,” Tony said, “but I bet Cap knew you’d keep a tail on him if you had advance warning that he was going out of town.  Cut the man a break.  Cap’s a private kind of guy.”

“He’s a backup plan for his backup plan kind of guy, too,” James said.  “It’s not like him to leave in such a hurry.”

“He did leave that number with Sam,” Talia said.  “He must have told Sam to call him or give us the number if we needed him.”

“What number?” Tony asked.

“Never mind,” Talia said.  “I guess we’ll see you back in New York.”

Tony ignored her attempted farewell.  

“My personal theory is this is all a smokescreen, and Cap got a sudden booty call,” he said.  “And it’s about time, because that man needs to get laid worse than anybody I know.”

“Uh huh,” Talia said.  “Goodbye, Tony.”

Talia didn’t ask James if he wanted lunch before she pulled out onto the road and turned her car towards I-95.  No way was she getting caught in rush hour traffic going in _and_ out of town.

“I don’t like it,” James said.  “I think we should head to Chicago.”

Talia shook her head.

“Why don’t you just say whatever it is that’s bothering you?” she suggested.  “I was worried at first; and I’m a little disappointed he didn’t tell us he was going; but he’s an adult, and he does have a right to go out of town without consulting any of us.”

“Bullshit,” James said.  “You’re scared that he left so soon after catching us fucking, because Daddy might be mad—or worse, disappointed in you.  And you’re hurt that he wrote Stark instead of you.”

“What about you?” she asked.  “You liked things exactly the way they were, didn’t you?  Steve killing himself to make you happy while you took every shot you could at tearing him apart?  What are you going to do if he’s done with you?  If your best friend isn’t running back for more?”

“Shut the fuck up,” James said.  “You know fuck all about it.”

“Oh, James,” she said.  “Please explain it to me.  I just don’t know what to think!”

“Fuck off,” he said, but he was laughing as he did. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [If, like Natasha, you have never seen a bank run...](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/89761731498/just-in-case-some-of-yall-like-natasha-have)


	6. A New Perspective

***

 

_March 12th_

Hansen had mentioned the riverfront as a good place for a long run; and it was close to his hotel, so the next morning Steve headed down there before dawn.  It was crisp and clear and there weren’t many other runners; but he wasn’t alone, either.  He ran south along the west bank of the frozen river until Ford Parkway, crossed and came back on the east side.  It was a good run.

But he had showered and wandered out for coffee and a bagel and was back at his hotel all before 7:30 in the morning, so he was at loose ends until the Minneapolis Institute of Arts opened at ten.  He dithered a bit in the hotel lobby.  Finally he pulled out his phone and sent a text.

_Have a rec for where I should stay up north?_

The reply came within half a minute.  

**_Who the hell are you?_ **

Steve snorted.  So much for being memorable.

_Steve.  We met last night.  How much did you have to drink after I left?_

**_Didn’t recognize the number_ **

**_You a morning person handsome?_ **

_Sorry if I woke you._

**_Nope got an early meeting_ **

**_Here’s a link_ **

**_Want to meet up later?  I know a good place for dinner_ **

_Let me check my schedule._

**_You should take that show on the road_ **

_I did.  Remember?_

**_Hilarious._ ** **_8:00?_ **

_Send me the address and I’ll meet you there._

**_It’s at the Walker so save that for the afternoon_ **

_Even better.  Thanks._

 

Hansen sent Steve a couple of links, so he used one of the computers in the hotel’s business center to take a look at the two resorts.  Both seemed like fine places.  He spent far too long poking around the websites trying to decide where to stay, but it wasn’t like he didn’t have the time.  In the end he decided he couldn’t resist a place called Big Bear Lodge; partly because they seemed well situated for canoeing, but mostly because of the name.  He gave them a call; a room was available; he was set.

Well, maybe not quite set.  A few more minutes searching the internet, though, and he was on his way to the University of Minnesota bookstore.  If he was going to take up sketching again, he needed something to draw with.

The art supplies available at the U of M bookstore were minimal, but Steve found enough to serve his needs.  Where he got into trouble was the bookstore proper—so much so that in the end he had to decide what books to keep based on what would fit in his side-bag.  He shipped the rest of the books back to New York.  He spent so much time at the bookstore that the MIA was open by the time he checked out.  He went straight there.

It wasn’t the Smithsonian or the Metropolitan, but MIA was a decent size museum.  Steve had to prioritize, because he didn’t think he could take it in if he tried to see it all that day.  Thinking the photography exhibit would be a nice size to see before lunch, he went to that first.  Then when he got there he spent half an hour staring at _Migrant Mother, Nipomo, California_.  He couldn’t look away.  

Had his mother ever looked like that:  weary, but peaceful and so strong?  Accepting of the death she saw coming?  When he pictured her, he remembered her fall of straight golden hair—she had been so proud of her hair—and a cool hand on his forehead, and toward the end, badly hidden fear in her eyes.  He guessed it must have been hard to know that her death would leave her sickly fifteen year old son all alone in the world.  All his worry at the time had been for her, not himself.

And he hadn’t been alone, because he had Bucky.  

Damn it.

Steve closed his wet eyes and breathed in and out, in and out; and when he had calmed down some he found an out of the way bench and sat down.  It was early days yet.  It was just that it was early days.  He’d gotten over losing Bucky once before, and he could do it again.

Only he hadn’t really, had he?  He hadn’t had time before he went nose down into the Arctic ice.  And when he woke up…  It wasn’t that he hadn’t mourned Bucky, but he’d lost his whole world.  Bucky’s death had been subsumed in that loss.

He wandered through the rest of the photography exhibit, but he didn’t take much in.  He saw Bucky or his mother in every photograph.  Finally he gave it up and moved on.  He needed to try something different.  He decided Asian art fit the bill, and it would probably be time for lunch after he was done with that.  He would move on from there, depending on what he was in the mood to see.

He decided on sculpture.  But the scope of MIA’s sculpture collection was vast, so Steve decided to seek out the mid-twentieth century pieces.  It was pretty interesting to see what people had done in the decade or two after he went under the ice.  And it felt more reasonable too—a little bite of the future instead of a great leap ahead.  

But just like _Migrant Mother_ , the sculpture got to him.

 _Warrior with Shield_ was the piece that did it.  He had to leave after that.  It took him by surprise how much it affected him, but sometimes good art was like that. 

 The plaque on the wall read:  

_Henry Moore’s Warrior with Shield is neither standing nor fallen. His left arm and leg have been severed, rendering him unable to stand; however he is not yet defeated. The Warrior’s remaining arm thrusts a shield upward, as if to reflect a blow. The scoring on the bronze surface of the sculpture is reminiscent of scars or wounds, and the jagged, uneven stumps where limbs used to extend help to portray a body under an extreme amount of pain and exertion. Moore’s Warrior reverberates with the agonies of a soldier’s brutalized, mutilated body yet with equal force shows the valor and persistence to fight to the end. The intimacy of the form of Warrior with Shield resonates with both the heroism and the tragedy of combat._

 

He wasn’t going to take in anything after that.  He found a quiet place to compose himself; and when he could, he left.

That afternoon Steve gave himself a few hours to explore the Walker before he was supposed to meet Hansen for dinner.  There was some beautiful art in their collection, but Steve was still wrung out from the morning.  He wandered aimlessly, and nothing really caught him.  In the end he was relieved when it was time to head to the restaurant.

He was a little early, but Hansen was already there.  He was on his phone so Steve hung back until he’d finished his call.  His smile was wide when he saw Steve.

“I hope I’m not underdressed,” Steve said.  “I don’t have much with me to choose from.”

“You look great,” Hansen said.  He signaled the host that they were ready for their table.  “Really good.  You have a good day?”

Steve thought about it.

“Yeah,” he said.  “I did.  I think I wore myself out this morning, though.  I couldn’t concentrate real well here.”

“I know what you mean,” Hansen said.  “I didn’t concentrate very well today myself.”

“What do you do?” Steve asked.  He gestured to Hansen’s suit.  “Something white collar, I guess.”

“I’m an architect,” Hansen replied.

“Pretty fancy,” Steve said.

“And you?” Hansen asked.  “What do you do when you’re not riding your bike across the country?”

Steve grimaced.  “Law enforcement.”

“Law enforcement?” Hansen asked.  “Like a police officer law enforcement or like an FBI agent law enforcement?”

“Yeah, a little like that,” Steve said.

Hansen laughed.  “Have it your way, Mister Mysterious,” he said.  “Just tell me you’re not on a case right now.  And that you’re not a bounty hunter.  Because I don’t want to be abandoned here while you chase the bad guys; and no matter how good you look in black leather, I’m not dating that cliché.”

Steve laughed and shook his head, and the waitress arrived to take their drink order.  After she was gone, Steve bit his lip and went ahead and said it, because it had to be said.

“This can’t be a date,” he said.  “We’re a couple of friends having dinner.  I like you a lot, but I can’t date you.”

Hansen’s frown was a little disappointed, a little resigned.

“You’ve got someone back in Brooklyn,” he said.

“No,” Steve said.

“I have to say that’s a surprise,” Hansen said.  “Gorgeous, sweet guy like you.”

“It’s kind of a story,” Steve said.  “I don’t want to get into it right now.  And work makes things complicated.”

“I’d guess so,” Hansen said.  “The long hours and stress, the danger—that’s tough on a relationship.”

“Some of my colleagues have made it work,” Steve said.  “It just hasn’t happened for me.”  How to explain without sounding crazy or saying who he was?  “A few years ago, I—  Well.  There was a pretty big change in my life.  And just before that happened, I lost my best friend.  And I was hung up on a great lady for a while, and I hoped she liked me, too; but then I had to—  She had moved on by the time I was back around.”

“Is this a roundabout way of warning me you’re bi?” Hansen asked.

“What?  No,” Steve said.  “It’s just—it’s war.  It happens.  But it took a while for me to come out of it, and it—“  He took a deep breath.  Boy, this was hard.  “I gotta believe that it just hasn’t happened for me yet.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Hansen said.  He reached over and took away the fork Steve was fiddling with, and put it down, and took Steve’s hand in his.  “This is not making me not want to date you.”

“I’m not saying it right,” Steve said.

“Is this about the long distance thing?” Hansen asked.  “Because I admit that’s a consideration, but—”

“No,” Steve interrupted.  “I can’t.  I’m not queer.”

“You sure?” Hansen said.  His thumb rubbed little circles on Steve’s hand.  “You flirt pretty comfortably for a straight guy.  And most straight guys mind if another guy holds their hand.  You don’t seem to be minding.”

The waitress showed up with their wine and to take their orders before Steve could respond.  He was grateful for the interruption.  He didn’t want to let go of Hansen’s hand, and he didn’t really have an explanation for that.  It felt good, but it wasn’t fair to Hansen.  His chest clenched a little.  He hadn’t meant to lead him on.  He hadn’t realized that Hansen had assumed Steve was queer.

He made himself release Hansen’s hand.  He picked up his wine glass, but he toyed with the stem of his glass instead of having a sip.

“I talk too much,” Hansen said.  “How about I shut up, and you tell me what’s wrong.”

“Sodomy’s a sin,” Steve said.  “A person can’t help being queer, but sodomy’s a sin.”

Hansen put his hands up.  

“Whoa,” he said.  “Whoa.”  He sighed, and shook his head, and had a big swallow of his wine.  “I know how to pick ‘em, don’t I?  Though in my defense, you don’t expect someone like that to be hanging out at bear night in a leather bar.”

“I didn’t realize at first,” Steve replied.  “And then it wasn’t a bad place, and I liked you.”

“You didn’t realize at first,” Hansen said.  “You somehow miss the Pride flag?  And the bar full of half-naked gay guys?”

“I felt pretty dumb when I did,” Steve said.  “Sometimes I’m out of touch, and I don’t get stuff.”

Hansen sighed.  “At least the wine’s not bad.”  He took another sip of his wine and just looked at Steve.  Steve tried his own wine.  It tasted like all red wine tasted to him, but what did a poor kid from Brooklyn know?

“I’m sorry,” he said.  “Look, you don’t have to stay; I’ll pay for dinner—“

“No, you won’t,” Hansen replied.  “We came here for dinner; let’s have dinner.  And I invited you, so I’m paying.  Just give me a minute to be pissed off, okay.”

Steve sighed and had another sip of wine while they sat there silently.  It seemed like forever.

“Okay,” Hansen finally said.  “Okay.  R.C. or Evangelical?”

“What?” Steve said.

“Are you Roman Catholic or Evangelical Christian?” Hansen repeated slowly.

“Oh,” he said.  “Catholic.  Catholic schooled, too; all the way through high school.”

Hansen shook his head.  “Christ,” he said.  “Ah, damn.”  He drained his wine glass and refilled it before topping off Steve’s glass too.  “My ma’s Italian-American, and I was raised Roman Catholic.  I got some idea what it’s like.”

“Did she take it hard when you told her?” Steve asked.

“Cried whenever she saw me for about a year and a half,” Hansen replied.  “Wrote rambling letters about how she was praying for me and what the priest said.  And I was such a momma’s boy…  That was a tough time.  I stayed at school as much as I could.  But it would’ve been more than my life was worth to skip Christmas at home, so I couldn’t avoid her entirely.”

“Oh,” Steve said.  “I’m sorry.  It would’ve killed me if my mom did that.”

“She got over it,” Hansen said.  “My dad stayed out of it, and my sister worked on her, and after a while Father Thomas started making some noise about loving the sinner and hating the sin; and Ma decided she could live with it if the other choice was never seeing me.  And that was decades ago.  She’s mellowed since then.”  He worried at the stem of his wine glass.  “You?  Sounds like you’re not out.”

“I’m not queer,” Steve repeated.  “Though Father Benedict always said that it wasn’t the impulse but the act that was a sin.”

“Yeah, I’m not giving up sex,” Hansen said.

“Sorry,” Steve said.  “It’s none of my business what you do.”

“Well, I was hoping it was gonna be your business,” Hansen said.  “But I’ll get over it.”

“I like women,” Steve said.  “I loved Peggy.  And—  Well.  I _like_ women.”

“I’m not one of those guys who think bisexuality doesn’t exist,” Hansen said.  “ _And_ I would like to say that despite my whining, even if you were 100% gay you’re not obligated to do a thing with me you don’t want to do, kissing or otherwise.”

“Thanks,” Steve said.  “I’ll keep that in mind if I feel like you’re taking advantage, Casanova.”  He smiled.  Hansen’s comment reminded him of that WAC who stole a kiss once.  That might have been a little sad, but it was a good memory, too.  And it was a good story.  “There was this dame one time—she just grabbed my tie and pulled me in, and before I knew it we were kissing.  Boy, was Peggy steamed when she caught us.  It just sort of happened.  I knew I shouldn’t be kissing another girl.  I didn’t mean to be.  But she kissed me, and then it was so sweet…”  

Hansen’s brow was furrowed.

“You say that like all you did was kiss,” he said.

“Yeah,” Steve said.

“It’s just.  Generally people don’t rhapsodize about a kiss unless they’re in middle school or something,” Hansen said.  “It’s a first kiss sort of thing.”

“It _was_ my first kiss,” Steve said.  “And I don’t know why people don’t ‘rhapsodize’ about a kiss.  I like kissing.”

“Steve,” Hansen started, then broke off.

“Go ahead and say it,” Steve said.  “Much as I hate this kind of conversation, we’re having it.  And I feel like I owe you.”

Hansen pointed at him.  “You don’t owe me a thing,” he said.  “And this thing I’m telling you—I’m telling you this thing that I feel like a guy your age should already know, because you’re coming over all twelve year old girl on me.”

“Hey!” Steve protested.

“Don’t interrupt,” Hansen said.  “I’m not done.  Steve.  Have you?”  He shook his head.  “How old are you?”

“Older than I look,” Steve said.  “But I know what you mean.  Twenty-six, I guess.”

“You guess?” Hansen looked curious for a moment, but shook his head.  “Okay, we’re not talking about that right now.  I can’t believe I’m asking a twenty-six year old this question, especially one that looks like you.  Though I’m starting to see a little bit of the kooky coming through, and some people like a shade more normal in a partner…  But it seems like whatever kind of upbringing you had, your childhood—“

“Just _ask_ , Hansen,” Steve said.

“Have you ever done _more_ than kissing?” Hansen asked.  He shook his head again.  “Sorry.  I know it’s crazy, it’s just the way you were talking—“

“No,” Steve said.

Hansen hid his face in his hands.

“I’m okay with that,” Steve said.  “I don’t need to go around kissing everybody in sight.  I want forever, and that’s not the way to get it.”

“I think my brain is going to explode,” Hansen said.  He took a deep breath.  “I’ve got a lot of things to say to that.  But this first.  Let me see your hand again.”

Steve extended his hand, and Hansen took it in his.  He held it firmly but gently, and he didn’t make any of those little circles with his thumb.

“We’re going to try something, because the thing is—“  He broke off to take another deep breath.  “The thing is, twenty-six is awfully late to be at this stage in the game, okay?  I think you missed some steps.  So I want you to try something for me.”

“Okay,” Steve said.

“Really try it,” Hansen said.

“I will,” Steve replied.

“Okay,” Hansen said.  “I’ll know if you’re shitting me.  Now close your eyes.”  

Steve did, and Hansen started up those little circles with his thumb again.  

“I don’t have a woman’s hands,” he told Steve.  “They’re pretty broad, and I’ve got thick fingers.  Most of my work I do on a computer, but I do a little woodworking in my spare time.  I take care of my ma’s garden.  I’ve got some calluses.  My hands can get rough.”

Steve opened his eyes.  “See, that’s the kind of thing that leads people to think you’re normal,” he said.  “You don’t like queer stuff.”

“That’s another thing we’re gonna have to add to that list of mine,” Hansen said.  “Normal does not mean straight and vice versa.  But right now we’re still doing the first thing.”

“Sorry,” Steve said, and closed his eyes again.

“That’s okay,” Hansen said.  “Baby steps for you, Brooklyn boy.  Now pay attention to my hand.  You doing that?”

“Yeah,” Steve said.

“Really paying attention?” he asked.  “It doesn’t feel like a woman’s hand, does it?”

“No,” Steve said.

“Good,” Hansen said.  “You’re doing real good.”

“It’s not exactly hard,” Steve said.

“No, we’re just getting to the part that might be tricky,” Hansen said.  “I want you to picture a guy is holding your hand.”

“A guy is holding my hand,” Steve said.

“Such a comedian,” Hansen said.  He changed how his thumb was moving so that it was moving up and down Steve’s fingers instead of those little circles.  “Not me.  I have a specific guy in mind.  Or rather, you do.”

“Okay,” Steve said.  Despite the uncomfortable topic of conversation, he was starting to feel relaxed.  Which was a strange thing to think when a guy was holding his hand, but that’s just the way it was.  No one in the future touched Steve, not like this.  It didn’t feel romantic, just comforting to have that human touch.  The kind of touch he would have had before from his mom or Bucky.

He could get used to this.

“I want you to think back to your teenage years,” Hansen said.  “I want you to think about a guy you knew:  the guy who had that something, you know?  Something inexplicable.  Could be a friend, but might not be.  Might just be a guy you saw around.  Maybe it was nothing you could put a name to, but he was special.  You know a guy like that?”

 _Bucky_.  _All the way back from when we were kids._   _Couldn’t be anyone else_.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Are you picturing him?” Hansen asked.

“Yeah,” Steve said.  It was easy.  Bucky had been—he couldn’t imagine his life without Bucky.  Bucky laughing, yelling, fighting…  An impish kid with skinned knees or a handsome soldier with a roguish tilt to his smile.  

A tortured survivor with a metal arm and ragged hair falling in his eyes.

Steve swallowed heavily.  This wasn’t about the present.  That was Barnes and Barnes had nothing to do with it.  

Still.  He might not be Steve’s friend anymore, but he couldn’t take away the friendship they’d had before.  That was burned too deep into who Steve was.  That Bucky from before—Steve would always have that Bucky.

And just because the way Bucky felt about him had changed, it didn’t mean that Steve’s feelings had changed.  He was going to have to learn to keep some distance, but he didn’t think he _could_ stop caring about Bucky.

“Good,” Hansen said.  “Keep picturing him, in as much detail as you can.  Tell me when you have his image fixed firm in your mind, okay?”

“I got it,” Steve said.  He did.  Though the Winter Soldier mixed in with the handsome sergeant in the World War II uniform a little bit.  That was okay, though; it was all Bucky.

“Good,” Hansen said.  “Good.  Ready?  Feel that hand on yours?”

“Yeah,” Steve said.

“That’s not my hand anymore,” Hansen said.  “Imagine that it’s his hand.  His hand, touching yours.”

Steve did.  He pictured Bucky’s hand, holding his, rubbing those small circles.  Gentle touches, caressing like he might have with one of his dames.  

Touching Steve the way he’d been touching Natasha.

He pulled his hand sharply away from Hansen’s.

“Son of a gun,” he breathed.

“Yeah,” Hansen said, nodding.  “Bisexual.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The paragraph Steve reads describing "Warrior with Shield" comes directly from the Minneapolis Institute of Art website. Tell me that's not perfect for Steve!
> 
> There is a post with the artwork up on tumblr (salviag.tumblr.com), and then I'll add the link [here.](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/89954663428/the-artwork-that-steve-sees-at-the-minneapolis)


	7. A Little Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner with Hansen continues, as does their enlightening conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you missed it last chapter, you might want to pop over to see [the art that affected Steve so much](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/89954663428/the-artwork-that-steve-sees-at-the-minneapolis) on my tumblr--salviag.tumblr.com.
> 
> And shingo_the_pest pointed out to me that some folks might like to see a bit of the photographers Hansen mentions, [Robert Mapplethorpe](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/90180964908/robert-mapplethorpe-early-polaroids-1970-1975-vice) and [Ansel Adams.](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/90181327673/and-heres-one-of-ansel-adams-photographs)

***

 

_March 12th_

Steve was vaguely aware that his food was delicious, and he thought he and Hansen had talked about some other places to visit while he was in Minneapolis; but he was distracted for most of the rest of dinner.  He thought that was understandable.  As far as he could tell, Hansen didn’t mind.

Bisexual.  Steve hadn’t heard the word before.  He figured out what Hansen meant by it from context.  Hansen had hypothesized that Steve was bisexual, and suggested a way to test it.  And boy, had he given Steve something to think about.

Of course, it could be it was just Bucky.  Could be he was mistaken.  Bucky had been his best friend.  He and Steve’s mother had been the two most important people in his life.

And then he remembered the first time he met Sam, the little frisson of interest as he ran past and Sam yelled at him.  The feeling in his chest when he saw Sam smile for the first time.  The way that feeling deepened when Sam showed Steve he knew what it was like to be a soldier back from war, feeling like he didn’t belong to his old life anymore.

 _Lord help him_.

But he’d never acted on it, and he didn’t need to; and as long as he didn’t, Father Benedict had said that wouldn’t be a sin.  Just wanting wasn’t a sin.  Good thing, too, because now that he thought about it, he suspected he’d wanted Bucky from about the first moment that kind of thing stirred in him.

He’d loved him from way before that, but that wasn’t new information.  He’d just thought it was the love you felt for a good friend.

Now that he thought about it, he was glad he hadn’t known.  It would have been torture to know it.  To love Bucky, and to want him, and to watch him chase dame after dame after dame.  It would’ve been awful.  Just thinking about it now hurt a little.

This must be why it was a sin—because it sure was an ugly thing Steve was feeling, that clench in his stomach at the thought of all those girls.  At the memory of Bucky’s hand in Natasha’s hair and his mouth on her breast.  He’d never exactly got how the physical act itself could be a sin, except that you couldn’t have babies from it.  But seeing the strain having a lot of children had been on families during the Depression, seeing children in orphanages because their parents couldn’t feed them—that kind of thing had made him think maybe birth control wasn’t such a bad thing.  How could it be a bad thing to try to prevent the conception of a child you couldn’t take care of?  How could that be God’s plan?

And he’d known he wasn’t supposed to touch himself the way he sometimes did when he was alone in his bed.  It was a mortal sin.  

And awful to confess, too.  He would rather confess to blasphemy.  He wasn’t sure but that he might not prefer having to confess to murder.

He just hadn’t understood how it could be so terrible to do when he was awake what tended to happen while he was sleeping if he didn’t.  When the church had taught that it was a grave matter, he had rationalized that if it hurt anyone, it was only himself.

Probably this was all proof that he was an awful sinner.  He liked to think he knew what was right and was strong enough to do it even when it meant a sacrifice.

Well, that was clearly pride; and that ugly feeling when he thought about Bucky’s dames was envy; and that throb in his groin and jump in his chest at the thought of Bucky touching him?  Lust for sure.  Lord help him, he was immersed in sin.  He was going to have to find a parish in Minneapolis, because he had better get to confession as soon as he could.  He was about to ask Hansen if he had any suggestions—maybe his mother’s church?—when Hansen beat him to it.

“You aren’t hearing a word I’m saying, are you?” he asked.

“Sorry,” Steve replied.  “You gave me a lot to think about.  I’m in a mess of trouble.”

“I wish I could convince you otherwise, but I know that look,” Hansen said.  “I grew up with that look.  That is the look of a Catholic deep in self-flagellation.”

“I shouldn’t ask this, but you and I have already talked about all kinds of things polite people don’t talk about,” Steve said.  “How do you live with it?  Being outside the church?  Knowing that you’re an unrepentant sinner, headed to hell?”

“They really did a number on you at school, didn’t they?” Hansen said.  “You talk like a nun.”

Steve ignored that.  “Do you just not think about it?”

“No,” Hansen said.  “Though it’s true I haven’t been to confession in years, and I tend to find myself at Saint John’s Episcopal when I go to church these days.  I guess I still think of myself as Catholic…though about as lapsed as a Catholic can get.  But I’m not sure I ever had it as bad as you.  You got it old school.”  He paused.  “You know what?  I have a book you should read.  It helped.”

Steve shrugged.

“Look,” Hansen said.  “Last night, you told me you didn’t hope for happiness; you would settle for not being unhappy.  You have to see that’s no kind of way to live.  I just wonder how much of it is because you’ve been suppressing this.”

Steve shrugged again.  He didn’t know how to answer that.  He couldn’t exactly explain a lot about his life to Hansen.

“I tell you what,” Hansen said.  “Take it with you when you go up north.  Maybe you won’t take a look at it, but you’ll have it in case you decide you’re curious.”

Steve laughed.  “You just do not give up, do you?” he asked.

Hansen smiled in return.

“Not much,” he said.

Steve shook his head.

“You know, I’ll take that book,” he said.  “I like that in a guy.”

“Well now you’re just taunting me,” Hansen said.  “How about you tell me about your day; and when you flirt, I’ll try not to flirt back.”

Steve’s face felt hot.  He had just flirted, hadn’t he?

“Okay,” he said.  “But recommend a parish church to me before we change the subject.  You’re right about my feeling the need to go to confession.”

“You know what?” Hansen said.  “You’re in luck.  My sister goes to mass at Saint Stephen’s; and so I happen to know that Friday evening mass is at seven with confession right after; because we usually have family dinner on Friday nights, and Ma always complains about dinner being late when Soph stays for the service of reconciliation too.  And I even know the address from all the times I’ve had to pick Soph up when her rattletrap car has broken down while she’s there.”  He paused to smile suggestively at Steve.  “Much as Ma and Soph would love you, by the way—and there is no doubt in my mind that they would—I’m not inviting you to join us for dinner tomorrow.  Because that would be our third date, and you are in no way ready for that.”

“This isn’t a date,” Steve said automatically.  “Wait.  What’s so special about a third date?”

Hansen shook his head.

“Baby steps, Brooklyn,” he said.  “Baby steps.”

Steve frowned at him and made a mental note to check the internet later.

“I’m not sure what to tell you about my day,” he said.  “It’s your town.  You’re the one who recommended everything to me.”

“Yeah, but I want to know what you thought about it,” Hansen said.  “And I don’t think I’ve been to the MIA since the sixth grade field trip, so there’s plenty that I don’t remember about it.”

Steve shrugged.  “Stop me if you get bored,” he said.  He thought about it.  They’d already covered some topics that were far more personal.  

“It was great,” he said.  “I didn’t see everything, but MIA has some great pieces.  And there were two that really got to me.  Lots of powerful art there.  Some really famous people’s work, and a decent breadth to the collection, and I saw some intriguing technique.  But two that really got me.”

“You going to tell me what they were?” Hansen asked.

“I’m getting there,” Steve answered.  “One was a sculpture by a guy named Henry Moore.  I don’t know much about him, but I’m planning on learning more.  It was called _Warrior with Shield_.  And it—he’s hit bad, you know?  He’s lost a lot.  Can’t stand, and he’s still fighting.  He’s gonna be fighting all the way down.”  He shook his head.  “I’m not great with words.  But maybe the name says it all.”

“The war hit you hard,” Hansen said.  “Seems like it might have hit you harder than most.”

Steve shrugged.  Yeah, he’d lost everything.  But that was because he was going to die, and instead he woke up in the future.  That wasn’t because of the war.  He wasn’t sure someone who hadn’t been there would understand.  War was terrible, sure; but before he lost Bucky, it had been one of the most satisfying times in his life.  He was making a difference, doing the right thing; and he had his best friend at his side and a real special lady in his heart.

“War hits everybody hard,” he said.  “I didn’t have it too bad compared to some.  This was more about life.  I don’t know.  But I think it’s worth the price of admission.”

Hansen’s brow furrowed.  “Isn’t admission free?”

Steve smiled a little as he shrugged.  Hansen smiled too, and their eyes met; and Steve felt that little clutch in his chest.  

He was going to have to read that book Hansen wanted to lend him.  How many times had he felt that jump and ignored it?  But he set the thought aside.  This wasn’t the time.

“The other one,” he said.  “was a photograph by Dorothea Lange.  Her name I knew; but I knew her reputation more than I knew her work, if that makes sense.  I’d never seen this photograph.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Hansen said.  “I don’t recognize her name, but about the only photographers whose names come to my mind are Ansel Adams and Robert Mapplethorpe.”

“Well, I don’t know that second one,” Steve said.  “So we’re even.  But it was called _Migrant Mother, Nipomo, California_.”

“Yeah?” Hansen asked, brow furrowing again.  “Black and white, Great Depression era?  A woman, her head turned a little away from the camera, kind of looking off into the distance; and I think she has a couple kids with her?  I think I know that one.”

“Sounds like that’s it,” Steve said.  “Unless there’s another one awfully similar to _Migrant Mother_ out there.”

Hansen frowned at him again.

“You’re kind of a funny guy,” he said.

“Thanks,” Steve said.  “Guy I was texting this morning called me hilarious.”

“I don’t mean joke funny, though you’re witty,” Hansen said.  “I mean:  you don’t know Mapplethorpe?  I don’t know if he’s what you would call an art photographer; but he’s taken pictures of a lot of celebrities and he’s pretty controversial, so I’d think you would have heard of him even if you hadn’t seen any of his work.  And that picture from the museum, the one of the mother—that’s famous.  Like—really famous.  I know it and we’ve established that I don’t know shit about art.  But I don’t know the photographer’s name.  And you—you know the photographer but not the photograph.”

“Must be the Catholic school education,” Steve said.

“Yeah, except for that’s a shitty explanation,” Hansen said.  “Maybe you grew up so sheltered you’d never heard of Mapplethorpe, but why wouldn’t you know that photograph?  I mean, a mother and her kids during the Great Depression?  Hungry, suffering, all that?  Nuns eat that shit up.”

“You want to show some respect?” Steve said.  “That’s not the kind of thing you joke about.”

Hansen pointed at him.

“And that!” he said.  “How does a guy who’s not even thirty talk like that?  You think being gay is a sin—hell, you use words like ‘sodomy’ and ‘sin’ like you do—but you don’t mind if I hold your hand.  Caress it.  Admit it, you kind of liked it.  Which could be the repressed bisexuality, but even so.  Most gay guys with internalized homophobia would freak the hell out.  But you?  Doesn’t faze you a bit.  You are straight up gorgeous—I mean, A list gorgeous with a body that as far as I can tell has not a single flaw—but you’re a virgin.  Only ever been kissed, even.  And okay, gay with some serious issues about it; but you’re bi.  There have to have been hundreds of girls throwing themselves at you.  Literally hundreds, I bet.”

“It was an all-boys school,” Steve said.

“C’mon,” Hansen said.  “Was it boarding school?  Was it on the moon?”  Steve laughed and shook his head.  “So then that means shit.  There weren’t any girls in your neighborhood?  At the mall or the movies or the Starbucks on the corner?”

Well, there hadn’t been a Starbucks on the corner; but Steve had seen how ubiquitous they were now.  There was no explaining the rest of it either.  

And Hansen wasn’t done.

“And hard-core R.C. like you are, really sheltered and conservative…  Okay, maybe you might not have had sex,” he said.  “But only ever kissed?  Not even second base?  That is just a shovelful of shit.”

“I have a lot of willpower,” Steve said.

“I was a sixteen year old boy once upon a time,” Hansen said.  “Pull the other one.”

Steve pointed at Hansen.

“I know what I look like now, okay?” he said.  “But I did not look like this at sixteen.  It was a whole lot of years before I looked like this.”

“So you had some pimples,” Hansen said.  “What teenager never has pimples?  I think most girls would overlook it.  I know I would’ve.”

“I was skinny,” Steve said.  “And short.  And sick a lot.”

“Hell, I was skinny at sixteen,” Hansen said.  “And thirty-five years later, I’m not all that tall.  But I had had sex.”

Steve was kind of scandalized by that, but he knew better than to say so.  It had happened in the ’30s and ‘40s, too.  He’d been pretty careful at the time to make sure he didn’t know about Bucky; but whatever Bucky had done or not done, Steve was sure that time with Natasha wasn’t the first time.  But this at least, Steve could answer Hansen; because not a single girl had ever given Steve the time of day before the serum.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” he said.  “I don’t know why if it wasn’t the way I looked, because I like to think I’m the same guy inside now as I was back then.  Maybe no one noticed me because of Bucky.  I know I’m not bad-looking now, but he—Bucky was the real thing.  He was the one girls fell all over.  Can’t blame ‘em.  I wouldn’t notice me with Bucky in the room.  Especially not the way I looked then.”

Hansen sobered.

“That your friend who died?” he asked.  

Steve nodded.  

“I’m guessing he’s the one you were thinking of when we had our little experiment earlier,” Hansen said.  

Steve nodded again.

“Well then I’m sorry to tell you that your friend was straight,” Hansen said.  “Because you are more than ‘not bad-looking;’ and there is not a gay guy in the world who could resist you if you were his best friend, because it is really fucking obvious that you loved him a ton.  Hell, you still do.”

Steve tried to smile.  Hansen reached across the table to take his hand again.

“Hey,” he said.  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Steve took a deep breath.  Nodded.  He was going to get used to it someday.

“You want to hear about _Migrant Mother_ or not?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Hansen said.  “Tell me about her.”


	8. Making Connections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Bucky sees it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how we talked about Bucky's potty mouth earlier? In this chapter of just a bit over 2200 words, he drops the f-word THIRTY SIX times. With some other swear words sprinkled in for a little variety.
> 
> It's absolutely Marvel comic canon. Bucky swears like a sailor.
> 
> And I apologize if it offends you. The same way that Steve _won't_ swear, Bucky insisted on doing it.
> 
>  
> 
> _A lot._
> 
>  
> 
> So read this chapter at your discretion...
> 
> But I do want to know if it bothers you, so please drop me a comment here or at salviag.tumblr.com.

  
***

 

_February 28th_

It was just like Steve to cock-block Buck entirely by accident.  And he was pretty damn smooth with the ladies—at least, he had been, before—but he didn’t get a shot at a gal like Natasha every day.  

It had been easy before, when he had been a whole man with no worries the whole damn country didn’t have.  But these days?  He couldn’t hide his damn prosthetic arm, and he couldn’t explain it, and it kind of put a damn damper on his chances of making a good impression.

Buck hadn’t had so much as a kiss—at least, not that he could remember—since before fucking Zola got his hands on him.

And he’d _finally_ charmed Natasha into giving him a roll in the hay.  Natasha, with her angelic face and temptress’ body, who _knew_ about all the ways he was broken and wouldn’t run screaming when she saw his arm and his scars, and Steve comes waltzing in about ten minutes later.

So yeah, Buck had been a little pissed.  The look on Steve’s face hadn’t helped, either.  He couldn’t count the number of times he’d done something—or _hadn’t_ done something—so he wouldn’t have to see the furrowed brow and set jaw that meant Steven Grant Rogers disapproved.

And Steve had had plenty of time to make a move on Natasha before Buck was in the picture, so he had no right pulling that on Buck.  It was not his fucking fault that Steve moved at a glacially slow pace.

For a long time Bucky had thought Steve was the kind of guy who could’ve been a priest easy as breathing.  That he just didn’t feel the urge.  If a gal looked at Steve with any hint of interest, he ignored it; and when Bucky had tried to help him out by coaxing his girl into bringing a friend along— _Steve’s a great guy and a real gentleman, she’ll love him_ —Steve had tried in his hopeless way.  But it took a gal getting to know Steve a little bit to appreciate him, so none of those dames had given him any traction.

Why it was so important to dames that a guy be taller than them, Buck didn’t know.  If he had a chance with a dame as great inside as Steve was, he wouldn’t have cared if she was taller than him and skinny as a pencil.  Buck liked a looker as much as the next guy, but it wasn’t like Steve had been ugly.  Just small.  And sickly enough that he was likely to die from a fucking cold before the decade was out, but that you couldn’t see right off.

Buck couldn’t have lived like that—celibate all his days—but if Steve had really tried, he would’ve found someone.  He’d just never tried.  So Buck assumed Steve didn’t really want anyone all that much, just thought he should.  That wasn’t much like him, but Bucky didn’t look too close at it.

There were worse things it could be.

It wasn’t until Agent Carter that Buck had seen Steve make cow eyes at a dame—and she was making cow eyes right back.  And that was it—that was as far as Steve ever got.  As far as Buck knew, Steve had been perfectly content to wait until after the war to get even a dance.  He didn’t think Steve ever tried to kiss her.  He might not have told Buck about it, of course; he really was a gentleman.  But Buck thought he’d have known anyway.  Steve wasn’t exactly good at hiding what he felt, and those had been some cow eyes.  He would’ve been over the moon if he’d gotten a kiss from Peggy Carter.

Buck would’ve gotten more than a dance and a kiss if it’d been him on the other end of a look like that.  The way Steve looked after that fucking experiment, of course, Buck didn’t have a prayer of being noticed next to him.  S.S.R. Agent Margaret Carter didn’t even glance his way.

Being ignored by Agent Carter like that had turned his relief that there wasn’t something wrong with Steve into an ugly feeling in his stomach.  Not every dame gave him a smile, but he’d never been ignored in favor of Steve before.  He got over it less than a minute after she was gone, though.  He’d been pretty desperate for a dance with a pretty lady after Steve appeared out of nowhere like a damn angel to rescue him from Zola—something to make him feel like he wasn’t helpless and there was a reason to fight this damn war instead of run home and try to find all his pieces again.  Something more than trying to keep alive his fucking impossible friend who was throwing himself fucking face first into hell with a fucking smile on his face.

But how many times had Steve watched Bucky walk away with a girl with that damn wistful look in his eyes and never once gotten jealous?  It would be pretty low of Buck to hold the first dame Steve liked—who liked him too—against him.  Maybe Zola had already stolen some of who he was away, but there had still been enough of him left to know that much.

He didn’t know if Steve knew how much Zola had already taken from Buck by the time he came riding in on his white horse.  He’d tried to be the guy he used to be.  Back then, he’d thought it would just take time for him to recover from a pretty fucking harrowing experience.

Fucking Zola.

So Buck had stayed closeted away for a couple days after Natasha decided he’d had his shot and he blew it.  And yeah, he fucking knew that he was hurting Steve, okay?  He didn’t need anyone to tell him that.  He just couldn’t seem to stop.  That look in Steve’s eyes—the one that said _I’ll let you kill me before I hurt you_ —that had been the thing that day on the Helicarrier that pulled loose part of who he had been—of the James Buchanan Barnes under the Winter Soldier.  He kept hoping that it would happen again.

He was pretty fucking angry and pretty fucking broken now, and he knew it was ugly just like his jealousy had been.  But it was the only fucking thing he had any fucking power over in his entire fucking life, and that ugliness satisfied something dark in him.  He had more power over Steve—over fucking _Captain America_ —than anyone else in the _world_.  No matter how bad he treated him, Steve came back for more with hope in his eyes.  Yeah, maybe he’d started to test how far that went.  Maybe he’d escalated.  But it was just about the only thing that made him feel like he was worth something these days.

At least, it was as long as he kept getting cock-blocked.  He had hope that fucking someone would help him feel like a man again instead of a scared, weeping child trapped in a killer’s body.

And _yeah_.  Buck wasn’t _stupid_.  He knew that if he let Steve in, Steve would hold him and let him cry in his arms like a snot-nosed kid and take care of him and spoil him fucking rotten.  But he was done with breaking, and he was already rotten at the core.  Zola had made sure of that.  So he’d kept it up.

Maybe he’d gotten complacent.  No matter how much he had held Steve off, he’d tried again every single fucking time before this one.  Steve Rogers did not give up.  It just didn’t happen.  Fucking figured the first time it did would be when it was Buck’s sanity on the line.  Just Buck’s bad fucking luck.

When Natasha had said Steve might be ill, Buck was not prepared for how that shook him.  How long had he spent worrying that the next time Steve got sick would be the last?  That fucking experiment had done that right at least.  Finally seeing Steve healthy?  He might have risked everything and given up any right to control his life and been turned into a fucking national icon the whole damn country thought it owned a piece of, but it would be a long fucking life.

And every last man in the U.S. Army had given up the right to take a piss without permission.  At least Steve had joined up voluntarily.  Buck would’ve locked Steve up before letting him sign up for something so dumb if he’d known about it, but he hadn’t.  And without the serum, Steve would have died when he went into the ice for his seventy year “sleep.”

Buck was glad it had been like going to sleep for Steve.  Him?  He had died when he fell from that train, and he had woken up in hell, and he had died again every single time they put him back under.

It wasn’t until they got to Steve’s place that Buck started to figure out that whatever it was that was going on, there was something seriously fucking wrong; and it was beginning to look like whatever it was that was wrong—it was wrong with Steve.  Not “he’s got pneumonia” wrong, or “he’s been kidnapped” wrong, or “fifteen fucking Hydra assassins and a dozen indestructible robots” wrong.

“Steve’s place is kind of depressing” wrong.  “Steve’s got twenty books about every single fuck-up the U.S. was a part of for the last seventy years and not one mystery on his bookshelves” wrong.  “Steve’s not got one note of music recorded after 1944” wrong.  “Steve’s making his bed” wrong.

“Steve’s not drawing” wrong.

He might have lost it a little bit about that last one.

Because Steve could stiff upper lip better than most Limeys, but Bucky could tell when he was hiding something even if he didn’t know what it was.  And his head had been stuck so far up his own damn ass that he hadn’t seen a thing.

And when Natasha told him that the only people in Steve’s contacts were Peggy Carter, Sam Wilson, and Avengers or former S.H.I.E.L.D. employees?  And a priest?  Steve had always been a friendly guy.  Maybe he ended up in nearly as many fights as friendships, but that was because Steve always had to stand up for somebody.  And that was the kind of thing that made friends too.  There should be a lot of fucking numbers in that phone.  

Where were the students he met haunting art museums?  The guys from—okay, maybe barbershop quartets weren’t as popular as they used to be, but this was New York City.  Buck bet there were a few.  And Steve was happy to sing most anything.  So where were the guys he met from chorale or whatever the hell it was?  Where were the guys he struck up a conversation with over a sandwich at the deli?  And—Steve had always had an easier time making friends with a guy than talking to women; but he had still met them, and he was going to church…  Where were the dames he met before or after Mass?

All the damn way to D.C., he had wondered what it was and how far back it went.  If he had seen that something was wrong; if he had asked:  would Steve have been able to tell him the moment his life got messed up the way Buck could point straight to Zola’s laboratory?

He remembered Steve dropping that fucking shield during their fight on the Helicarrier.  He pictured it against his closed eyelids again and again as Natasha drove like she had a fucking death wish and he shammed sleep.  It was the Winter Soldier’s memory, so it was sort of disconnected from Bucky’s knowledge of Steve.  But it was pulling at him anyway.

It wasn’t until they talked to Tony that Buck put it together.  Because Tony said _mysterious top secret patriotic mission, and the rest of you would just get in my way_ , and Buck had thought _suicide mission_ , and then he thought about that look that said _I’ll let you kill me before I hurt you_.

And then he thought Steven Grant Rogers does not fucking give up no matter how bad someone’s pounding his fucking skull into the ground.  Steve “I’m getting in the Army if I have to become a fucking science experiment to do it” Rogers does not drop his guard and take hit after hit without getting up or trying to hit back.

There was something really fucking wrong going on with Steve.

Really fucking wrong, he thought, as Natasha pulled out into traffic like living to make it back to New York would be failure.  Fucking death wish.

Ah, fuck.  Fucking hell.  That was it.  

Maybe Steve didn’t exactly have a death wish, but he sure wasn’t too invested in his life.  He wasn’t even trying to swim when the Winter Soldier pulled him out of the Potomac.

Shit.  Seemed pretty damn close to a fucking death wish to him.


	9. Anger Management

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky has a sleepover. No, not that kind of sleepover. (He wishes.)

***

 

_March 4th-March 13th_

If it had been anybody but Natasha, Buck would have been embarrassed about how long it took him to steal her phone so he could get Steve’s _gone fishing_ number off of it.  He wasn’t a disaster at stealth, but he was no Black Widow.  And she seemed to be on Clint Barton’s floor more than her own, so that added another complication.  Barton got back on Thursday, and he wasn’t a bad guy; but he wouldn’t be too broken up about putting an arrow through Bucky’s spleen neither.

Though given how hard Buck had been chasing Natasha and where she’d been sleeping since Barton got back, he understood more where some of that came from.

Guess he knew who the competition was, and apparently he’d gotten into the race when it was already in the last stretch.  He was probably shit out of luck unless Barton took another long ass mission and Natasha got antsy waiting.  Fuck.

They needed more lady Avengers.  Or Stark needed to get on it with that faux skin shit he’d been talking about.  Buck’d be willing to sit still while Stark tinkered with his arm from here ‘till the rest of eternity if it got him laid at the end of the day.

Fucking, fucking, _fucking_ Zola.  That bastard was still ruining Buck’s goddamn life.

Natasha did at least check the phone’s location once a day, so they knew Steve was still in Chicago.  What the hell Steve was finding to do in Chicago, Buck had no idea.  Chicago was just like New York City except colder and full of Midwesterners.  It couldn’t be further from the balmy paradise Sam described when he imagined where Steve had run off to.

Though Buck had checked, and apparently there was lots of fishing to be done in and around the Windy City.  Who knew?

The question of why the hell anyone would go fishing in Chicago instead of Key West in fucking March was still unanswered.

It took ’till the next Wednesday for Buck to be able to manage it; and when he did, it was almost by accident.  He and Natasha had been investigating a report of explosions in Central Park (which turned out to be fucking firecrackers—Didn’t NYPD do their own fucking job anymore?  The Avengers didn’t need to be wasting their time chasing drunk teens armed with fucking homemade fireworks).

But once they got to the park, they might have got a little caught up in the chase.  It had been a damn boring month.  

And then he needed to call his shrink—because he was a fucking head case who still had two people and some gaping holes in his head six months after Steve brought down Hydra, and S.H.I.E.L.D., and forced a crack in the coffin trapping James Buchanan Barnes in his own head.  And like a stupid fucking head case, he had forgotten to charge his damn phone and was supposed to be sitting down to have his brain picked apart ten minutes ago.  So Natasha let him borrow her phone to call Doc so he could apologize and reschedule, and Buck took advantage of her trust to search her contacts for the _gone fishing_ number and send it to himself before he looked up Doc’s number and made the call.

Soon as they got back to Avengers Tower Buck went to plug in his phone and check for the number.  He dialed it right away, but it took him two hours and a trip to the gym to ruin three punching bags before he could let the call connect.  

There wasn’t any answer.

Which was annoying on its own, but what really fucking pissed Buck off was the voicemail wasn’t set up.

He _might_ have thrown his phone across the room.  And when JARVIS  asked him if he required assistance, he might have shot out the AI’s speakers on his floor.  And the TV.  And the floor to ceiling window in the living room.

Fucking Natasha took his guns away when the Avengers came to see what the fuss was. And then told him he would be staying on Clint’s floor with them; and he didn’t have a choice about it, because he was a child.

“Does this mean the threesome is on for tonight?” he asked.  “‘Cause as long as he keeps his hands off, I could put up with him.”

Barton just looked at him, but somehow his eyes transmitted _fuck off and die in a stinking hole_ without his facial expression changing much.

“I don’t take children to my bed,” Natasha said.

“I’m nearly a hundred fucking years old,” Buck said.

“Well, I don’t do the geriatric set,” Barton said.  “They can’t keep up.”

After that exchange, they—the Avengers, because Buck was not on board with any of this—decided it would be better for Buck to stay with Stark.  No one was willing to even consider letting him stay on his own floor like a fucking adult.

Later that evening, Stark told him, “It’s not so much the holes in the building.  I’ve done that a time or two myself.  As long as it’s for the right reasons.  Or, you know, an experiment.  Accidental.  Holes can be fixed.  But nobody likes it when the formerly brainwashed assassin—who’s still a little on the unpredictable side—starts playing target practice in our home and sulks about it when the rest of us show a little concern.  I for one would like to know you won’t do it again before you get your own place or your guns back.”

Buck ignored him.

“And call me Tony, would you?” Stark said.  “We’re having a sleepover.  We should be on a first name basis.”

But after trying to sleep in _Tony_ ’s guest room and failing, and going down to his own floor to find that JARVIS had been instructed to lock him out, he went back up and woke Tony.  He was still mad at Natasha for taking his guns.

“Really?” Tony asked groggily.  “Now is when you want to talk?  Tomorrow night you can stay with Bruce.  He’s got some nice insomnia going too.  You can be the ‘too damn early in the morning’ buddies.”

“I think we need to call Steve,” Buck said.  “It’s been more than a fucking week now.”

Tony lay back down.

“We’ll do it in the morning,” he said.  “By which I mean after eleven.  Now go back to bed.”

“No arguments?” Buck asked.

“No,” Tony said.  “I am in favor of hassling Cap for whatever reason.”  He yawned.  “How you think you’re going to call him when he didn’t take his phone, though, I don’t know.”

“He got another one,” Buck told him.  “At least, we think so.  Natasha and I got the number from Sam Wilson.”

“I hate spies,” Tony said.  “Always with the secrets.  Why couldn’t someone have told me that?”

“Don’t look at me,” Buck said.  “That was her call.”

“That explains it,” Tony said.  “Widow’s calls are never in my favor.”

***

But when they asked the Avengers to gather and told them the plan, nobody else agreed; and suddenly Tony had cold feet, too.

“We know where he is,” Natasha said.  “We can find him if we need him.”

“And if he’s in trouble?” Buck demanded.

“Steve can take care of himself,” Banner said.  “He’s a private guy.  I don’t think he’d appreciate our nosing into his business.  And from what he wrote, it sounds like he has some soul-searching to do.”

Barton nodded, and Tony grimaced at Buck.

“They’re right, you know,”  he said.  “And who’s going to hurt Captain America?”

“Hydra,” Buck said.  “Chicago mobsters.  Crazy guy with a gun.”

“Good thing we don’t have any of those running around here,” Barton muttered.  Buck glared, but this wasn’t the time.  He’d have a talk with that punk later.

“He’ll come back when he’s tired of Chicago,” Natasha said.  “Which can’t be too much longer.”

“Fuck you,” he said.  “Fuck every damn one of you fucking cowards.”  He went back down to the gym to destroy a few more punching bags, and he avoided them the rest of the day.

If Buck had the slightest idea of how to find Steve, he would have stolen one of Tony’s cars and been on the road to Chicago without a word to any of them.  But the Winter Soldier didn’t analyze intel.  He got pointed like a gun and he went where he was shot.  Without Natasha’s help, he was hopeless.  He didn’t have any idea where to begin.  What was he going to do?  Drive up and down the streets of Chicago, hoping he’d see Steve walking down the sidewalk?

And Banner was right.  _Captain America_ could take care of himself.  Why the fuck did Buck care if he took off all of a sudden?

He holed up in the gym and Tony’s guest room and avoided all of them.

Friday morning, Natasha met him at the gym.  Well, he was already down there; and he saw her come in and ignored her until she stepped between him and the punching bag.  Buck didn’t pull his punch, but lucky for her it was his right arm.  She caught his fist and twisted it down and flipped around onto his back, and from there they sparred until they were both bruised and tired enough to collapse on the gym floor and catch their breath.

“Steve’s moved,” she said after a minute.

Buck sat up on his elbows.

“That does not sound like ‘Steve’s on his way back to New York,’” he said.

“No,” she said.  “He’s in Minneapolis.”

Buck shook his head.  What was this shit?

“Chicago wasn’t cold enough for him?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said.  “But I thought it couldn’t hurt to call.  I didn’t know if you wanted to be the one to do it.”

Buck thought about it.

“I don’t know,” he said.  “Was this going to happen now?”

“No time like the present,” Natasha said.

“Well, give me fifteen minutes to shower,” Buck told her.  “I want to be there even if I’m not the one who makes the call.”

She nodded, but she didn’t get up yet.

“What’s going on with you and Steve?” she asked.  “I don’t get it.  Are you his friend or not?”

Buck sighed.

“I don’t fucking know, okay?” he said.  “I wish I did.”

 


	10. Ice and Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's last day in Minneapolis is a busy one.

***

 

_March 13th_

Hansen had mentioned the Stone Arch Bridge across the Mississippi as worth seeing; so Steve headed that way for his morning run, and then northeast to White Bear Lake.  The long run helped.

He was still done pretty early.  It seemed like the city was just starting to get going.  He wanted to go back to the Walker today; he was hoping he could take it in a little better if he was fresh.  But it didn’t open until eleven.  So he took his time over breakfast, hemmed and hawed a little bit, and finally grabbed his brand new sketchbook and headed out on his bike—south, towards Minnehaha Falls.  It was a clear, sunny day—a good day for a ride.

Hansen hadn’t told him what to expect, only that there was a pretty park to explore around the waterfall, and that the Falls should “not be missed.”  And Steve had run two days in a row now along and across the frozen Mississippi River. He still hadn’t put together what that would mean for the Falls, though, because he’d been picturing running water, with maybe some ice along the edges.

He was going to blame it on being a city boy.  Wow.  _Wow_.  He didn’t have words to describe the Falls, but Steve was never at his best with words.  He had to try to capture them a different way.  He pulled out his phone to take some pictures.  He wasn’t going to sit out and sketch in 30º weather.  But he sure was going to draw that waterfall.  He just stood and looked, enthralled by the cascade ripping down the falls, entirely frozen, icicle upon icicle upon icicle.

After a few minutes he saw some people emerge from behind the waterfall, and he realized that the frozen wall of ice created a sort of cave hidden behind it.  He climbed down from his vantage point, around and over across the ice, so that he could enter the cave.

If the outside of the waterfall was a frenzy of movement building on itself, the interior wall was the direct opposite.  Mostly smooth walls of ice curved out from the lip of the overhang to meet the frozen creek below.  The light through the ice was a bright, clear blue.  Steve stood on the ice and reached out to touch the walls.

He didn’t remember being frozen.  Was this what it had been like, encased in the ice?  It was beautiful.  Peaceful.  Cold, yeah; but a serene kind of cold.  

He didn’t realize he was crying until one of the other visitors to the falls asked him if he was okay.  Hastily he wiped his cheeks and nodded.  He hurried away, mortified to have been seen that way, regretting every step he took away from that hidden chamber of ice and light.

What a good way to die.  If he could have chosen, that might have been it.  He wished he could remember.

Steve wandered through the wild area of the park below the falls, dazed, barely aware of his surroundings.  After a while he came to a road, so he turned and followed it.  About a third of a mile along he came upon a cluster of buildings.  The sign by the road read “Minnesota Veterans Home.”

He followed the road as it turned and led into the grounds until he stood in front of a pretty red brick building.  Once he got there, though, Steve wasn’t sure what to do except stare at the building.

After a while, a sturdy African-American woman came out of the building to stand in front of him, her hands on her hips.  She was middle aged, maybe, though it was hard to tell.  There was some gray in her short hair, but her face was smooth.

“Can I help you?” she asked.  Her tone indicated that she’d prefer the answer be “no.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” Steve said.  “I didn’t mean to intrude.  I was just walking in the park and followed the road in.”

Her eyes softened a little.

“You a veteran?” she asked.  Steve nodded.

“Well, the folks here are from the wars of some generations a little earlier than yours,” she said.  “I don’t think you’ll have a lot in common.”

“You’d be surprised,” Steve said.

“Humph,” she snorted skeptically.  “Not much can do that anymore.  Listen, hon; time folks are here, they don’t want many strangers coming by.  They want some peacefulness."

“I can relate to that,” he said.

“I tell you what,” she said.  “You parked up by Godfrey Parkway?”  Steve nodded.  “You go back to your car.  You go out of the park and turn left onto Hiawatha.  Take the Minnehaha Avenue exit, and follow it straight down.  The VA Hospital is south of East 54th Street.  There’s almost always someone up for a game of cards or conversation.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said.  “I’ll do that.”

“All right then,” she said.  “Now shoo.  I got work to do.”

Steve laughed, saluted, and turned to retrace his steps.  It was mid-morning by the time Steve made it back to the Falls.  The temperature had gone up maybe ten degrees, and the ice was slippery underfoot from several hours in the sun.  As Steve started across the creek, he realized he hadn’t taken any pictures from beneath the Falls.  There was no way he could leave without those.  He pulled out his phone, stepped quickly towards the Falls, slipped on the ice and fell flat on his back.  The ice cracked ominously beneath him, and his phone skittered out of his hand and into the only puddle on the entire frozen creek.

 _Son of a_ —

He got up and—carefully, this time—hurried over to his phone.  It was hopeless:  half submerged, and the screen cracked, and it didn’t power back up no matter what button Steve pressed.

So now he’d lost his pictures of the outside of the Falls too.  That was just irritating.  He wasn’t in the mood to enjoy the Falls anymore, either.  He stuck his broken phone in his pocket and followed the path back up towards where he’d left his bike.  There was a trash can at the parking lot, and he tossed his phone with a sigh.  They were just pictures.  He could get a new phone; and after his time in the North Woods, he’d come back and take those pictures again—and get the ones from behind the Falls, too.

It was nearly late enough that the Walker would be open if he headed that way, but Steve couldn’t turn away from the VA Hospital.  It was a quick ride—five minutes, maybe.  He walked in the Visitor Entrance and flailed a little before catching the eye of a smiling lady at the front desk.  He walked over.

“Are you here to visit someone?” she asked.  “Please sign the Visitor’s Log, and I’ll ring their room.”

Steve shook his head.

“No, ma’am,” he said.  “Well, yes—but nobody in particular.  Just wanted to talk a little with someone who’s been there.”

She smiled at him.

“If you’re interested, I can give you some information about volunteering,” she said.  “There are lots of ways to become involved.”

“I’m from out of town,” he said.  “I leave tomorrow.  It’s just been on my mind a lot, I guess.  Thank you anyway.”

She looked at him for a long moment.

“You’ll still have to sign in,” she said.  “But then you can go on up to the café.  That’s open to the public, and there’s usually a few folks there this time of day.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Steve said.  He wrote _Steven Grant_ in the Visitor’s Log and followed her directions down the hall to the cafe.  He bought himself a cup of coffee, looked around, and approached a youngish guy in a wheelchair sitting at a table by himself.  He looked like he might not mind company.

“You mind if I join you?” he asked.

“Help yourself,” he said.

“I’m Steve,” Steve said as he sat.

“John,” the guy said.  “You here as family or as a patient?”

“Neither,” Steve said.  “Just wanted to—  I guess I thought it might help to be around some guys who knew what it was like, you know?”

John met his eyes.

“Yeah, I know,” he said.  He took a bite of his sandwich.  “My buddy Mason should be down in a few minutes.  You play cards?”

“Badly,” Steve replied.

“Even better,” John said.

Mason turned out to be a genial guy maybe a couple years older than John.  Steve couldn’t tell how he’d been injured; but then, Steve’s hurts weren’t visible either.  Didn’t mean they weren’t there.  Mason scarfed down a quick lunch before grabbing a couple more guys to join them.

“The game’s poker,” he said.  “Texas Hold ‘Em.  Who’s in?”

Steve lost every hand and had a grand time doing it.  He skipped the Walker entirely to spend the rest of the afternoon playing poker with John’s friends, leaving only when the canteen closed for the day.  He asked at the front desk where a good place to get dinner was, and maybe to buy a phone, then he walked out of the VA in a lot better mood than he had been in when he arrived.

The lady from the VA had recommended a place to eat close to Saint Stephen’s.  It opened at 5:30, so he was there five minutes after they opened their doors.  Which was a good thing, because they filled up fast; and the food was great.  The menu was short and a little too fancy for Steve to feel comfortable, but when his chicken came it tasted fantastic and wasn’t weird at all.  The restaurant Hansen had chosen had been like that too:  the menu was a little intimidating, but the food was delicious.

Both places had been a better deal than someplace that pricy in New York, too.  Mostly he’d gotten used to the crazy prices things cost in the future, but every once in a while he got a shock again.  And usually it was food.  Cars, houses, phones—that stuff hadn’t been a part of Steve’s everyday life.  But everybody ate.  And Steve didn’t eat out a lot in the forties, but he’d gone to the automat often enough, or the deli—so he’d had restaurant meals, though none so fancy as he had had in the future.  And sometimes it just got to him.

Like his dinner.  It was great, sure—but a plate of chicken with beans and spinach on the side had cost him twenty-five bucks!

When Hansen had paid six dollars for a bottle of water, it had been all Steve could do not to argue with him about it.  He was almost certain Hansen had paid near as much for that dinner for two as what Steve had paid in _rent_ for all of 1941.

It was the kind of thing he had imagined marveling at with Bucky, before.

But with or without his friend, he had practice in shaking his head at the unbelievable future; so he set it aside, because it was just a different world.  He had a leisurely dinner before walking the half a block to the Apple store to get a phone, then heading to Saint Stephen’s for Mass.

Saint Stephen’s Church was a beautiful old building.  Steve walked in and felt something settle inside him.  It looked right—the way a church should look.  Peaceful, reverent, traditional; created with grace and skill and art.  He liked it a lot.  He took a bulletin and found a seat somewhere in the middle of the pews and waited for Mass to begin.

A couple minutes after Mass had started, Hansen slid into the space next to him.  Steve looked questioningly at him.  Hansen jerked his head forward, towards the front of the church; so Steve shrugged and turned his attention back to the service.  It was not until the sign of peace that Steve turned back to Hansen, but Hansen simply offered his hand to shake, his expression solemn; so Steve shook his hand and turned to the parishioner on his left.  Saint Stephen’s took a long time with the sign of peace, and they were noisier and a little more expressive than Steve was used to; but no one tried to hug or kiss Steve, and he didn’t mind that they were more open with each other.  It was nice to see the families interact.  The only odd moment was when a dark-haired, middle-aged woman politely but forcefully made her way down the aisle past several other people to shake Steve’s hand in particular.  She held his hand for a moment and looked searchingly at him, so Steve smiled hesitantly at her; and she nodded and then directed an intense look around him at Hansen.

Oh.  Hansen’s sister?  Steve turned to look at Hansen; but his friend seemed ill at ease, so Steve let it go.

After the service was over, however, Steve intended to get some answers.

“I thought you said you didn’t come to Mass anymore,” Steve said.  “And was that your sister?  Why didn’t you sit with her?”

Hansen shrugged.

“I promised to lend you a book before you left for the North Woods,” he said.  “Since I forced you to go, I thought I’d better provide something to read in case you hated it.  I’ve been calling you all afternoon, but I never got you.  I knew you’d be here, though, so…”

“Yeah, I broke my phone this morning,” Steve said.  “In a pretty spectacularly stupid way.  But I want to read that book of yours, so thanks for taking the time to track me down.”

“Yeah?” Hansen asked.

“Yeah,” Steve said.  He and Hansen looked at each other for a moment, and Steve felt that jump in his chest again.  He wanted to step forward.  He wanted to take Hansen’s hand again.

Wasn’t it fast to feel this way?  Steve wasn’t ready for this.  He smiled widely and clapped Hansen on the shoulder, and the moment between them ended.

“And I thought you knew it’s pretty tough to make me do something I don’t want to do,” he said.

Hansen bit his lip.

“You’ve said,” he told Steve.  “I just—“  He broke off.  “You get a new phone yet?”

“Just now,” Steve said.  “Still in the box, even.”

Hansen shook his head, amused.  “What have you been doing all day, Brooklyn?”

Steve smiled again.

“Look, we should step outside a minute,” he said.  “This isn’t the time.  And I don’t have too long, because I need to confess—and you have dinner with your family tonight, right?”

“Yeah,” Hansen said.  He turned and led the way to the aisle and out to the entrance.  He moved a little away from the flow of parishioners exiting the church, then stopped and looked at the ground as he waited for Steve to make his way through the crowd.

“I want to see you again,” he said abruptly when Steve reached him.  “Not to get my book back.  The book is a gift.”  He looked up to meet Steve’s eyes.  His dark eyes were deep, intense, open.  Beautiful.  “You’re the most fascinating guy I’ve ever met, Brooklyn; and I’ve only known you three damn days.”

Steve’s chest clenched.  He opened his mouth, but the words wouldn’t come.  He licked his lips and tried again, and Hansen’s eyes grew even more intent.  He took a step closer, until the distance between them was too close to be simply two friends talking after Mass.

“I’m a hair away from kissing you on the steps of the damn church,” he said.  “Lick your lips again, and it’s gonna happen.”

Steve swallowed hard and gestured behind him, towards the church.

“I gotta…” he said.

Hansen nodded.  “I’ll take a raincheck.”

Steve tried to say something, but he just—  He stepped back a couple steps, and from that safer distance, raised his hand in farewell.

“I’ll see you,” he said.

Hansen nodded.  “Yeah,” he said.  “You better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Minnehaha Falls in winter](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/90847996118/minnehaha-falls-in-winter)


	11. Bucky's Dance

***

 

_March 13th_

Buck was clean and dressed, his hair towel dried, and ready to call Steve.  Well.  Ready to listen as Natasha called Steve, with a 50/50 chance of blowing up at some point during the conversation.  He was the last to arrive in Tony’s office; and the minute he walked in the door, Natasha extended her phone to him.

“Nah,” he said.  “You’re going to let us listen in on speaker phone, right?”

“Sure,” she said.  “But I’m warning Steve we’re all here and can hear him right away.”

Buck shrugged.

So she dialed, and there was nothing.  Not a single ring.  Straight to _voicemail has not been activated for this number_.  They hung around for a few more minutes, and Natasha tried again, and then Tony hopped off his desk and stretched.

“Well, this has been fun,” he said.  “Let’s do it again soon.  I’ve got some tinkering to do in the lab.  Let me know if you reach him.”

Banner made the same kind of noise as he left, until it was just Buck and Natasha—and Barton, hovering in the door like he needed to fucking protect Natasha’s virtue from the big bad Winter Soldier.

“I’ll keep trying, okay?” she told Buck.  “Or I can give you the number again and you can try.”

“I broke my phone,” he said.  Natasha rolled her eyes.

“Then go get a new one, James; you’re not under house arrest!” she said.

“I’m ready to role-play whenever you are, Natashka,” he said.  “Which one of us will be the cop and which one the robber?”

“Natashka?” she sighed.

“Nat?” Buck said.  “Nata?  Nattie?  Tasha? Talia?”  Her mouth twitched, just the tiniest bit, at that last one.  “Really?  Talia?”  She rolled her eyes.  Bucky grinned. “Talia.  I like it.”

“Go buy a phone, James,” she said.  “I’ll be at Clint’s.  You can find me when you get back.”

Bucky looked to Barton, leaning against the door frame.

“You never want someone taller?” he asked wistfully.  “Someone who’s not frowning all the time?”

Natasha— _Talia_ —burst into laughter.

“You aren’t that much taller,” she said.  “And when you’re not frowning, James, that’s when you’re at your scariest.”

“What?” he asked.  He knew he was frowning right then, so he pulled a face; and she laughed a little more before sobering.

“You smile.  Frown.  Laugh; yell,” she said.  “The Winter Soldier’s face is very smooth.  Calm.  He has no expression at all.”

Fuck.  Buck pushed past her and Barton.

“I have to go buy a phone,” he told them, and he made his escape.

***

Buck didn’t pay any attention to where he was going, just walked.  He probably passed about a dozen places to get a phone, but they didn’t register with him.

Other people could see the cracks in him.  Other people saw the Winter Soldier, too.  

It was probably a good thing, right?  If Natasha could see the Winter Soldier, she’d know if he lost it.  There’d be a little warning for her.  And if he did lose control, the chances that she’d be around and he’d attack her were high enough that sometimes Buck worried about the risk.

Maybe he should be hanging around Banner instead.  Banner would Hulk out if he shot him.  And he knew what it was like to have a killer inside.  That was about all they had in common, though.  Banner was sort of boring.  Buck couldn’t stand spending all that time in a lab.

Course, Banner and Natasha weren’t the ones most at risk if he lost control.  The Winter Soldier had not been recalled, and his mission had not been completed.

Every minute Buck spent with _Captain America_ felt like Russian roulette, only the gun wasn’t pointed at him.  

Doc helped, but Buck was going to be unpredictable for a long damn time, and he knew it.  He was fucking dangerous to be around—his brain a minefield without a map.   Not even he knew what might set off the Winter Soldier.  And Buck himself wasn’t much better.  Two days ago he had shot up the place because he couldn’t leave a fucking message.  That hadn’t been the fucking Winter Soldier; that had been him.

If it had been the Winter Soldier, there could have been three dead Avengers when they came to check on him.  None of them was on their guard around him.  None of them acted like he was an enemy.  He stayed not because they were safe, but because they had a better chance of taking him out than anyone else.

And if the worst happened:  if Hydra came for him, the Avengers would defend him fiercely.  There wasn’t much Buck was afraid of anymore.  But Hydra getting their hands on him again—Hydra, whose scientists knew exactly how to bury Bucky and bring out the Winter Soldier…  That made him sweat.  That woke him screaming.

At least Natasha wouldn’t hold back if it were down to her and the Winter Soldier.  The Black Widow knew what the Winter Soldier was.  It was one of the reasons he felt safest with her.  She’d take him all the way down if she needed to.

He just hadn’t known that she _saw_ him.  It shook him to know that, and a good three-quarters of what Buck used to hang on was sheer cockiness.  

He and the Winter Soldier had a kind of dance going.  They weren’t doing the same steps, but it was a kind of dance all the same.

It might not be showy, but Bucky had always liked the fast footwork the Balboa required.  That was how Buck thought of his part in the dance.  A dancer needed to know what he was doing to keep it up.  He couldn’t look at his feet.  He had to just fucking dance like he never missed a step.  As long as Buck kept up the pace, the Winter Soldier couldn’t follow real well.  

Thing was, the Winter Soldier’s dance was more of a _samozashcita bez oruzhiya_.  If Buck was paying too much attention to his feet, he could take a nasty hit.  He had to keep moving and trust he knew the steps well enough he didn’t trip himself.

It wasn’t exactly like Buck wasn’t present when the Winter Soldier was on top.  He wasn’t sleeping inside his head or anything.  Just because Buck hadn’t remembered who he was, didn’t mean it wasn’t him.  He didn’t have blackouts.  He didn’t come back to himself all of a sudden, inexplicable blood on his hands.

He knew what he was doing when he was the Winter Soldier.  He just didn’t care who it hurt.

Ah, fuck.  Fuck Natasha, and fuck the fucking Winter Soldier.  Wasn’t nothing Buck could do but keep dancing.

He sighed and looked around.  He’d walked up Fifth Avenue almost to the northern edge of Central Park.  He hadn’t noticed a thing until he was standing next to the Museum of the City of New York.

Well, what the hell.  He went up the steps, paid his ten bucks, and went in.

He hadn’t been to Brooklyn for the whole time he’d been back in the city, not until he and Natasha went looking for Steve—hell, that was almost two weeks ago.  What the fuck was Steve doing?  If it had been anyone else, Buck would have thought that shit about the Avengers not taking Stark’s money anymore was bullshit—but it was Steve.  Shit like that mattered to him.  Usually didn’t take him two weeks to figure out the answer to one fucking question, though.  More like two minutes at the most.

Buck hadn’t been to Brooklyn for more reasons than a need to not find himself at Steve’s apartment.  He hadn’t wanted to go.  Who wanted to see how much of his home had eroded over the years?  Or worse, stayed the same, when he could hardly recognize himself?

So maybe he was a little hesitant about walking through the museum’s Brooklyn collection, even though his feet wouldn’t carry him any other way.

But it wasn’t hard.  Not at all.  It had that distance that an exhibition has sometimes.  It had a remote quality:  something he observed instead of touched.  It didn’t hurt to see the pictures that mapped out his own familiar Brooklyn, even.  It was a good feeling.  Like seeing a photograph of a beloved friend from years ago.  There was this one: a picture of Coney Island at night, the lights blurring as the rides whirled…  It looked like magic.  It smelled like salt air and tasted like Nathan’s Hot Dogs.  It sounded like Steve’s laughter, back when Steve used to laugh.

Steve was so damn serious these days.  Buck didn’t know what he had to complain about.  When he’d spent seventy years as Hydra’s pawn, in and out of cryofreeze, forced to endure the pain of being “wiped” again and again and again—maybe then Steve would have a reason to look like a dog someone kicked all the time.

So Buck was the one who’d been doing most of the kicking lately.  So what.  He had nothing to feel guilty about.  Steve came back for more all on his own.

Though Steve never really complained, exactly.  He never had.  He just looked at a guy with those fucking sad eyes and that little downturn to his mouth and that _fucking_ furrow between his brows.  Steve could give entire fucking lectures with that fucking crease.

And Steve hadn’t come back to New York yet, either; so maybe he finally had had enough.

Buck shook it off and tried to keep going, but whatever had allowed him to enjoy the Brooklyn exhibit was gone.  He left the museum and went to buy a damn phone.  A guy could barely cross the street these days without a phone.

 

***

 

Buck had been sure that by the time he got back to Avengers Tower, Natasha would have reached Steve.  Between his long walk and his visit to the City Museum, he had been gone fucking hours.

But she hadn’t gotten through.  She hadn’t once gotten a single ring, only the same _voicemail has not been activated for this number._

Maybe he figured it out,” Clint suggested.  “Turned off his phone entirely, not just put it to sleep.  Took out his battery, even.”

Natasha raised a skeptical brow.

“Steve?” she asked.  “It would be a first.  He’s terrible with tech.  He can barely make his computer work.  But why don’t I check?  If he’s turned his phone off, well—it’s not hard to turn it back on with the right equipment.”

Clint shrugged.  Buck would just have to trust Natasha; what the hell did he know about it?  He knew twenty-five ways to kill someone without a weapon—and that didn’t include using his fucking arm.  And when he did use the arm?  Or had a weapon of some kind?  He couldn’t fucking count that high.

Fucking pale rider on a pale horse, he was.  Fucking Apocalypse with a Brooklyn accent and holes in his memory a guy could drive a tank through.

But he knew jack shit about making computers reveal the secrets they kept, the kind of thing Natasha did easy as breathing.

“JARVIS, I’d like to turn on this phone,” Natasha said, and read off the number.  There was a short pause before JARVIS’ reply.

“I regret that I am unable to do so, Miss Romanov,” the AI said.

Natasha frowned.

“You are unable to do so?” she asked.  “Because you can’t find the phone, or…”

“Mister Stark has suggested that such an action would be ‘unsporting,’” JARVIS said.  “‘Natasha needs a handicap in the _Nancy Drew and the Mysteriously Disappearing Fossil_ competition,’ he said.  ‘Let her build her own Artificial Intelligence.’”

Clint started laughing, and Natasha swore furiously in Russian.

“So we go back to the FBI,” Buck said.  “So what?  That’s how you found him the first time.”

“We’ll have to,” Natasha said.  “Because as usual, Tony Stark is being an asshole.  JARVIS, please feel free to tell him I said so.”

“Of course, Miss Romanov,” JARVIS said.  “It will be my pleasure.”

Natasha shook her head before smiling.

“Tony Stark strikes again,” she said.  “I can’t believe him.  He doesn’t think his secret crush on Steve is _actually_ a secret, does he?”  She huffed.  “Fine.  I’ll go to the FBI.  Anyone feel like keeping me company?”

Clint shook his head, and Buck was silent.  

She shrugged and turned to exit.  Buck bit his lip.  The elevator doors opened; and she entered it and turned to press the floor button, and Buck stepped forward.  He didn’t fucking care what had happened to Steve.  He didn’t care what the fuck Steve was doing.  He was taking advantage of the chance to get Natasha alone, without fucking Barton to get in his way.

“Wait,” he said.  “I missed lunch, okay?  I’m starving.  Can you wait half an hour?”

Natasha’s eyebrow went up, but she didn’t look surprised.

“Of course,” she said, stepping out of the elevator.  “I’ll meet you on the ground floor in half an hour.”

Buck dashed forward to catch the elevator before it closed.  He didn’t bother saying goodbye.  Natasha was busy laughing at him, and Barton didn’t fucking care what he did, as long as it wasn’t Natasha.

It wasn’t much harder to break into the FBI in Manhattan than the one in D.C., even with less foot traffic to blend in with.  Natasha had changed into a conservative suit and pulled her hair up.  She was a little too beautiful to be an FBI agent, but any agent who saw her would be _hoping_ she was a new transfer or something.  Buck guessed he was the shabbily dressed informant.

But the trip to Federal Plaza was a wash.  Natasha tried to turn Steve’s phone on six times—three times each in two different offices, but she couldn’t.  After the last time, she bit her lip and ran a simple trace.  She looked up at Buck.

“It’s gone,” she said.

“What do you mean ‘gone?’” he asked.  “He took out his battery, like Clint said?”

“Probably,” Natasha replied.  “I didn’t think he knew to do that, but he must have figured it out somehow.  Maybe he read it?  Maybe someone told him.  Who knows?  It doesn’t matter.  The result is the same.”

“What the fuck do we do now?” Buck asked.

“We go home,” she said.  “We should tell the other Avengers about this.”

“It’s not like the others give a fuck,” Buck said.  Natasha narrowed her eyes.

“That’s not true,” she said.  “Everybody cares about Steve.  Respecting his desire for space is not the same as not caring.”

“What about you?” Buck asked.  “You don’t ‘respect his desire for space?’”

“No,” Natasha said cooly.  “Not really.  It was one thing when we knew he was in Chicago, but to have lost track of him?  No.  We need him.  If he has to have a moral crisis, he can have it here where I can keep an eye on him.”  She turned and swept out of the office.

Buck shook his head and followed.  They were all fucking nuts, every single fucking Avenger.  When Buck was the sanest guy in the place, there was a serious fucking problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find the photograph of Coney Island [here](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/91142450418/new-york-in-summertime-coney-island-at-night); and the dance Bucky mentions, the Balboa, [here](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/91142440073/buckys-view-of-his-dance-with-the-winter-soldier). The Winter Soldier's "dance" is actually a Soviet-developed martial art.


	12. Disappearing Act

***

 

_March 13th-14th_

Taking the subway back to Avengers Tower at rush hour was only slightly less aggravating than having to find a parking spot by Federal Plaza in the middle of the afternoon.  As much as Talia loved to drive, though, she hated driving in Manhattan.  So the subway it was.

James didn’t speak on the way home.  He was scowling so hard there was a clear space around him for three feet in every direction despite the time of day.  Talia left him alone.  She was beginning to think he didn’t understand his mind any better than any of the rest of them did.  Perhaps he needed to spend some time with his thoughts instead of running away like a child runs from a monster.

She had sympathy for what he had gone through; she understood what it was like to know she had done terrible things.  But the worst monsters were always inside one’s own mind.  That was no excuse for not looking at them.

Tony had left to meet someone for dinner by the time Talia and James returned to the Tower.  Clint was at home, reading while he waited for them to return.  Bruce was meditating, so she left him to it and asked JARVIS to request he join them when he was done.  James went straight to the guest bedroom—to sulk, she assumed.

Brushing her hand across Clint’s shoulder as she passed, she went to the white projection table he kept pushed against one wall.

“JARVIS?” she asked.  “Would you please project a map of the United States on the table?  A road map, showing cities and major tourist attractions.”

“Of course, Miss Romanov,” JARVIS replied, and within moments the hologram was projected onto the table.  Clint came to stand by her, his shoulder touching hers; and they both studied the map.

“You think you can find him again?” he asked.  “I don’t doubt you have the skills, but you’ve never expressed much interest in the Midwest.  How well do you know it?”

She shrugged.  Clint was right, of course.  She had only the barest knowledge of the vast stretch of this country.  But that’s what maps were for.

And experts.  One of whom she happened to have handy.

“James!” she called.  “Come here!”

James opened the door to the guest room he was using, leaned against the door jamb and looked skeptically at her.

“What the fuck?” he said.  “Are you my mother?”

“I need your expertise with this,” she said, gesturing to the table.  James wrinkled his brow and came over to frown at the map projected there.

“What the fuck am I an expert in?” he asked.  “I never been anywhere in this country but New York City except on a mission as the Winter Soldier.  And I wasn’t fucking sightseeing.”  He swept his hand across the East Coast, pausing on New York and Washington D.C.  I don’t think he ever had a mission anywhere but here.”

She smiled sweetly at him.

“You’re an expert in Steve,” she said.  “Don’t glare at me!  Look at the map.”

With a put upon sigh, he did.

“What?” he said.

“There’s Minneapolis,” she said, pointing.

“Give the girl a prize,” James replied.

She arched a brow at him.

“We know Steve was there this morning at 9:00 a.m.,” she said.  “So the question is:  where is he now?  Where is he going next?”

James tilted his head to look at her, and turned to study the map with pursed lips.

“There,” he said after a minute’s thought, pointing at the map.  “Mount Rushmore National Monument.”

“You’re sure?” she asked.

He shrugged.

“I am not overwhelmed with confidence,” she said.

“Give me a damn break!” he said.  “I’m not one hundred fucking percent, okay?  But look at the damn map!  Where else _could_ he go?  And he’s Captain America.  ‘Course he’s going to Mount Rushmore.”

She turned to look at Clint.  He shrugged too.

“I don’t have any better suggestions,” he said.  “Unless he’s headed to Canada—and if he wanted to go to Canada, he could have gone to Montreal two weeks ago.  Or from Chicago to Toronto.  I mean, look at that border.”  He traced the many lakes and tributaries dotted across the Minnesota-Canada border.  “He’s not crossing that on a motorcycle.  And there’s nothing there but trees and podunk towns.”

James crossed his arms and scowled.

“So now what?” he asked.

“Now you go back to your sulking,” Talia said.  James’ frown deepened.

“Oh hell no,” he said.  “What are you going to do?”

“That depends,” she replied.  “JARVIS, did Tony restrict my access to any of his vehicles?”

“No, Miss Romanov,” JARVIS said.

“Thank you, JARVIS,” she said.  “Please have the jet fueled up.  I’ll be ready to depart in an hour.”  Talia smirked at James and waited.  He scowled at her.  “Well, I’d better go pack.”

James stomped off to his room and slammed the door.  She waited.  Half a minute later he was back.

“Ah, fuck,” he said.  “Fine.  Mount Fucking Rushmore, here we come.  Why the fuck couldn’t Steve get lost on a Florida beach instead of in the middle of fucking nowhere?”

***

Talia didn’t think she’d pulled one over on Tony, exactly; but she was a _little_ smug about having puzzled out Steve’s next likely destination in time to catch him there.  James was a bear about coming along, so she ignored him.  Clint had tilted his head in question— _Was she sure she wanted that loose cannon along?  Did she want him to go with her also?_ —but Talia had shaken her head—just barely, but Clint understood.  He needed a chance to rest and relax, and tedious trips to tedious sculptures to recover their wandering leader were not conducive to that.

And he didn’t trust or feel comfortable around James, which paradoxically made James worse.  Talia was sure she hadn’t made matters any better by sleeping with James while Clint was gone, but Clint knew what he meant to her.  James was an irritation to him, not a threat.  

No, it wasn’t that Clint didn’t trust James with her.  And Clint didn’t fear the Winter Soldier; he had never met the Winter Soldier.  His first encounter with James had been when he was a bawling, incoherent wretch, half begging Steve to save him from Hydra, half blaming Steve for not saving him.  Clint had pitied James then.

The next day, James had been weeping that he deserved to be killed.  They should just kill him; he had to be evil and rotten because otherwise how could they have taken over his mind?  Made him do all those things, if he wasn’t black as pitch on the inside?  If there hadn’t been a traitor inside him the entire time?  They should kill him before he went bad again.  Clint’s eyes had flickered to hers, his mouth tight; and he had walked out and never come back.

It was a shame, of course; because if anyone could offer James empathy, real understanding of what it had been like to be the Winter Soldier; it was Clint.  And that was exactly why Clint kept his distance.  Perhaps someday it would be less painful for him, but that day hadn’t come yet.  And Talia didn’t have it in her to force it on him.

It was easy to rent a car at the Rapid City airport, and Talia had made a hotel reservation before they left New York.  The hotel was bland and the car more so, but sometimes one took what one could get.  They had arrived too late to go to Mount Rushmore that night, so Talia drove through an awful fast food place where she got a mediocre salad and James got 2,000 calories of fat pretending to be food; then she drove them to the hotel.

 _Chert_ , the car was boring.  She was going to fall asleep at the wheel at this rate.

Their hotel room had two queen sized beds.  She and James had a rather tense standoff about who would get the bed furthest from the door until she shrugged.  Clint wouldn’t mind.

“We’ll share,” she said.  “Just don’t steal the covers.”

James leered at her before disappearing into the bathroom.  Talia flipped through the TV channels, but there was nothing interesting on—even less so than normal.  When it was her turn in the bathroom, she took her time—the shower at least had limitless hot water and excellent water pressure; and when she emerged, James was curled up in a ball on the side of the bed nearest the door, his eyes closed.

How sweet.  He’d given her the wall.  She slipped into bed and turned her back on him.

“You wanna give it another shot?” he asked.  It seemed he wasn’t asleep after all.  “I can make it real good for you.”

Talia sighed and rolled onto her back.

“No,” she said.  “Take the other bed if it’s a problem.”

“It’s not a problem,” he said.  He rolled over onto his back as well, though he did not presume to touch her.  “We’d be good, though, wouldn’t we?”  He sounded wistful.

“Probably,” Talia said.  “For as long as you managed to pay attention, maybe.”

He turned his head to look at her.

“Ouch!” he said.

“I prefer patience in a man,” Talia told him.  “Fast and eager is fine sometimes, but a man who knows how to hold himself:  still as stone and yet always ready, to watch and wait for just the right moment to move; a man whose attention is honed by that discipline…  That’s a man worth having in your bed again.”

“I’m a sniper,” James said.  “I know how to be still and wait.”

She turned to look at him.  His face was smooth and expressionless—the Winter Soldier’s face, but for a slight narrowing of his eyes.

“I don’t know what you were before, though your skills as a marksman are well known,” she said.  “And maybe the Winter Soldier could be considered a sniper—though his patience was not his own, it was the obedience of a dog awaiting its master’s command.  But now?  Do you honestly think you could be still if you had to?  I don’t.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he asked.  His face had moved from blank to determined.

“You aren’t comfortable enough in your skin,” she said.  “You can’t stand to be alone, quiet.  You are always moving.  Even when your body is motionless, you roil under the surface.”

“I have no damn idea what that shit is,” he said.  “I’m going to sleep.”  He rolled over onto his side, giving her his back.  She sighed and did the same, listening as their breathing quieted, joining in rhythm as they fell asleep.

Far too early in the morning, Talia woke when James slipped out of bed to sit by the window.  But he only gazed out the window at the scintillating view of the parking lot, so she closed her eyes and went back to sleep.  

The smell of coffee woke her at a more reasonable hour of the morning.  James had made a small pot of it; and when he saw she was awake, he poured her a cup.  He offered it to her, and she sat up to take it.  His eyes remained on her face, not a flicker downward.  For all his sometimes crude persistence, he was as much of an old-fashioned gentleman as Steve was.

“You ready to go to Rushmore?” he asked her.  “Do we think he left Minneapolis yesterday, so he’s already here?  Or do we think he’s coming in today?”

“I don’t know,” she said.  “He was in Chicago for ten days, then suddenly he’s in Minneapolis.  Maybe his plan is for another ten days in Minneapolis.”

“Why the fuck are we here, then?” he asked.

She shrugged.  “Easy to eliminate,” she said.  “And it’s partly intuition.  I just have a sense that his time in Chicago was preparation to move on, and now he’s going to speed up.”

“Do you always run off half-cocked ‘cause you got a feeling?” James asked.  “Why the hell did I think it was a good idea to listen to you?”

“I don’t know,” Talia said cooly.  “Why did you?”

“Distracted by the view, probably,” he said.  “Ah, fuck.  We’re here.  We might as well take a look.”

Talia crossed her arms and stared him down.

“Something happened in Minneapolis,” she said.  “Either he learned someone was tracing him, or he learned that it wasn’t possible if the battery was out, or his phone is broken.  Either of the first two would have spooked him and he’d move on.  The last one?  Unlikely.”

“Why is that?” James asked.  “Because he’s a paragon of fucking grace?”

“Yes, actually,” she said.  She sighed and climbed out of bed to head to the bathroom.  “He’s extraordinarily graceful and in control of his body.  He doesn’t drop things.  He doesn’t fall.  He doesn’t trip.”

“He doesn’t dance, either,” James told her.  “He ain’t taking you out on the town anytime soon.”

“If I want to dance, I take myself,” she said.  “For some things, a woman wants a man; but dancing is hardly one of the times I need to bring my own.”  And she shut the bathroom door firmly behind her.

“You ain’t pulling the punches, are you?” James said.  “Damn.”  There was a pause.  “You want any more coffee?  ‘Cause I’m gonna finish this off if you don’t.”

“Go ahead,” she called through the door.  “Your coffee is terrible.”

“Don’t blame me, blame the hotel,” he said.  “You gonna be in there all day?  Please tell me you aren’t the type of dame who takes five fucking hours in the bathroom in the morning.”

She emerged and lifted an eyebrow at him.

“Are you ready?” she asked.  “Or am I going to have to wait while you primp?”

He shook his head and laughed.

“Talia, you are just about perfect,” he said.  “You ever change your mind about letting James Buchanan Barnes into your bed, you let me know.  Shall we go get some breakfast?”

She nodded, and he gestured for her to precede him out of the room.

“Even if it’s a one-off out of pity?” she asked.  “Because that’s all it’ll ever be.”

“Lady, at this point, sheep are starting to look good,” he said.  “A pity fuck from you compared to that?  I’ll take it.”

“How flattering,” she said.  “Why did we ever leave the bed.”

He smiled that devilish grin at her, and she let her mouth curve in a small smile as well.  There were times she liked him quite a lot.

As they walked out of the hotel into the parking lot, James grasped her elbow and  began to steer her away from the car.

“This is the wrong way,” she told him.

“No it’s not,” he said.  “We’re walking to breakfast.”  He handed her one of those cards hotels display by the front desk.

“Tally’s Silver Spoon?” she asked.  “Why there?”

“We have to!” he said.  “It’s your name!”

“My name is not _Tally_ ,” she said.

“And they have chicken fried steak for breakfast,” James said.  “I’ve got more than one reason.”

“Fine,” she said.  “But they’d better have something for me to eat, too.”

“Oh, live a little,” he said.  “You could stand to gain a pound or two.”

“Well, now that I have your approval,” Talia replied.  It wasn’t a long walk, and they bantered for those few blocks.  She was immensely grateful that he was cheerful in the mornings.  James in a bad mood was terrible company, but like this he was charming.

As they sat down at a table and opened their menus, James smiled a challenge at her.

“Dare you to let me order for you,” he said.

“Not a chance,” Talia said.  “I’ve seen how you eat.”

“I’d order something you’d like!” he said.  “At least let me guess what you want.”  He looked over the menu.  “Damn.  Look at that.  ‘Vegetable breakfast’ for certain.”

“Not a bad guess,” she said.  “But no.”  She turned to face the waitress approaching their table.  “Chicken fried steak for the gentleman, fried eggs, a glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee.”  She raised her eyebrow at him.

“Not bad,” he said.  “Only make the eggs scrambled, and could I have two blueberry pancakes, too?  Bury ‘em.”  He narrowed his eyes at Talia.  “No veggie breakfast, huh?  Okay—“  He studied the menu again and grinned.  “The lady will have the house made pecan vanilla granola with yogurt, bananas, and blueberries.  And a cup of coffee.”  She smiled and nodded to the waitress, and he crowed in triumph.

“See?” he said after the waitress had taken their menus and retreated to the kitchen.  “I ain’t half bad to have around.”

Oh, James.  Sometimes she could barely stand him, and sometimes he was too sweet for words.

“No,” she said.  “You’re not.”


	13. A Small Snag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> James makes a joke in this chapter that modern readers may find offensive. His intent is not to insult any Native American nations or members thereof; but as with a lot of what James says, it's good odds someone will find it appalling.

***

 

_March 14th-15th_

Based on the number of cars in the parking lot, Talia and James weren’t the first to arrive at Mount Rushmore that morning; but unless some visitors to the monument had already been and gone, they were in the first dozen.  There wasn’t a motorcycle in the lot.  And Steve’s motorcycle was distinctive enough to be remembered, so if he had been one of the few who had come early enough to have already left by 8:00 a.m., they’d be able to find out.

A smile and friendly question to the attendant at the parking lot revealed that no big blonds on Harleys had been to the monument yet that day.  James agreed to babysit the parking lot while she questioned some of the rangers about visitors from the day before.

The first ranger she found whistled when shown Steve’s picture.

“That is not the kind of guy you forget,” she said.  “Wow.”  She looked up.  “This your boyfriend?”

“No,” Talia smiled easily.  “He’s my cousin.”  She pointed to the parking lot, where James slouched against a light post.  “That’s my boyfriend.  Roger was supposed to meet us today; but he’s not here, and sometimes he gets a little mixed up.  He’s gorgeous and he has a great heart, but Aunt Rosie must have dropped him on the head a couple times when he was a baby.”

The ranger handed the picture back.

“I’ll keep an eye out,” she said.  “And I’ll pass the word.  Should I tell him to call you if he comes by?”

“Here’s my number,” Talia said.  “Give me a call if you see him, please.  And tell him cousin Natasha said it’s time to come home.”

The ranger nodded.  “You know,” she said.  “Your cousin looks like Captain America.”

“He gets that all the time,” Talia said.  “It’s his go-to Halloween costume.”

Talia checked with a few more rangers, but none of them had seen anyone who looked like Steve.  She returned to the parking lot to find James and the lot attendant deep in the sort of posturing conversation about cars men seemed to enjoy.  She waited for a minute while James extricated himself from the conversation.

“No one saw him here yesterday,” she said.  “Any luck?”

James shook his head.  “No,” he said.  “The parking guy showed me the log from yesterday, so I could see all the different places people come from to see the monument.  They keep track of make and model of car, too, not just the license plate—so even if Steve thought to switch out his license plates, which I don’t think he would—he’d still be in the log.”

“So now we wait,” Talia said.

“When does this place close again?” James asked.

“Eleven,” she replied.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” he said.

“I’m afraid not,” she said.  “You see?  Patience is a virtue more men should cultivate.  And we don’t have to sit here the entire time.  One of us can wait here while the other tours the monument.  We’ll take turns.”

“Whoopdee-fucking-doo,” James said.  “Please let me go first, Mommy!  Please please please!”

“Now you’re never getting anywhere near my bed again,” Talia told him.  “I don’t do Oedipal.”

“Like that was fucking likely anyway,” James said.  “The answer’s been ‘no, no, no, and no;’ so ‘hell no’ ain’t that much of a change.”  He grinned.  “I might keep asking, though, just in case you change your mind.”

“ _Slava Bogu_!” Talia said.  “What would I have done otherwise?”

Talia had the impression that James took as long as possible to complete the tour of the monument, and he was back in just over an hour and a half.

“Everything’s fucking closed,” he said.  “The visitor center, the sculptor’s studio, the Lakota, Nakota, Dakota, Patota Village—all of it.  You can take a walk up and around the presidents’ heads.  That’s it.”

“Sounds like fun,” Talia replied.  “Don’t fall asleep while I’m gone.”

“Believe me, you’re the one who has to worry about falling asleep,” James said.  “This is the fucking boringest place ever.  Steve has the worst ideas.”

Talia and James staked out Mount Rushmore National Monument for the rest of the day.  Talia left only to bring back lunch, and James in his turn went to get their dinner.  They played cards most of the day to pass the time.

James cheated.  If she never played cards with him again, Talia wouldn’t mind a bit.

Steve never showed.

“So what now?” James asked.

Talia sighed.  “I think we should come back tomorrow,” she said.  “But perhaps we should also look into some other possibilities.”

“Great,” he said.  “I get the wall side tonight.”

The next morning, just when Talia was thinking that she might have to choke James if he gloated over his victory at cards one more time, Tony called.

“I hear you borrowed the car,” he said.  “Usually people ask first.”

“I asked JARVIS,” Talia replied.  “And I thought I was allowed to use any of your vehicles I needed.”

“The Avengers have that permission for emergency use,” Tony said.  “It doesn’t mean take the private jet to Rapid City and don’t bother to check in.”

“Forgive me; I don’t recall—when did someone make you the boss?” she said.

“First—you borrow someone’s stuff, you ask; even if you know the answer’s ‘yes,’” Tony said.  “Second— _Cap_ made me the boss, when he took off to parts unknown.”

“Oh, yes,” Talia said.  “Didn’t he also say you should listen to my advice?”

“This is not advice,” Tony said.  “This is Grand Theft Airplane.”  He paused.  “Did you find him?”

“Not yet,” she replied.

“Okay,” he said.  “You have until 9:00 a.m. day after tomorrow.  If you haven’t found him by then, you’re coming home.”

“Tony, let me be frank,” she said.  “Screw your deadline.  Steve meant for you to take charge in a crisis, not try to run our lives.”

“I’m beginning to see why the Capsicle needed a vacation,” Tony said.  “Let me put it to you this way:  Cap is already gone.  We can’t afford to have two other team members running off on a wild goose chase.  If we _do_ have a crisis, right now our response team is me and Bruce, and Big Green hates to talk strategy.  And I might actually _need_ some of your expert advice in that situation.  So you will get your asses on that plane by 9:00 a.m. on the 17 th and you will be at Avengers Tower by two that afternoon.  And if you miss the nine o’ clock departure time, you’ll be paying your own way back, because the plane leaves then whether or not you’re on board.  And good luck getting one-armed Jack on a commercial flight.  Are we clear?”

“Yes,” Talia said.  “I am clearly talking to a lunatic, because if you think you control me, you are clearly delusional.  And where’s Clint?”

“Fury called him in,” Tony said.  “And I don’t think I control you.  Lord knows how Cap does it.  But what I do think?  I think I own the plane and pay the pilot’s salary.  See you on the 17th, Widow.”  And he hung up.

“ _Ebanatyi pidaraz_ ,” Talia swore.

“Such language!” James said.  “My ears are blistering!”

“ _Yeban’ko maloletnee_ ,” she said.  “We have two days.”

“Two days for what?” he asked.  “Two more days to sit here?  Because I vote for whatever option doesn’t involve that.”

“Two days until we have to be back in New York or Tony tells the plane’s pilot to abandon us,” she said.

“So?” he said.  “Either of us could fly the thing.  We don’t need a pilot.”

“Maybe we don’t need him,” she said.  “But I don’t know if you’ve noticed?  Tony paid for that very nice apartment you live in—and the lovely one I live in—and he pays the electric bill, and he usually buys the groceries—and unfortunately the plane _also_ belongs to him, and he’s chosen to remember that fact.  And he’s right.  Steve’s gone, and Clint’s on another mission, and we can’t predict when Thor will be here or not.  He needs us in New York.”

“Clint’s gone, huh?” James said.

“Is that all you got out of what I just said?” Talia asked.

“No,” James replied.  “The rest was all Tony Stark owns our fucking asses and can buy or sell them at any time.”

Talia sighed.  “I miss Steve,” she said.  “He’s the only person beside Pepper who can keep Tony from flipping out.”

“Well, let’s fucking find him,” James said.  “Why are we playing this game anyway?  I’m just going to cream your ass again.”

“Only because you use your cybernetic arm,” she said.  “It’s unfair.”

“It’s the name of the game, Talia,” he said.  “All’s fair in love and War.”

Ugh.  These juvenile men and their awful puns.  She groaned and pulled out the travel guides.

“You take the Midwest,” she said.  “I’ll take the West.  Five most likely destinations from Minneapolis?”

“What if I want the West?” he said.

“I’m surrounded by children!” she exclaimed and threw the guide at him.  “I don’t care!  Take the West!”

“Touchy,” James said.  “How pissed are you that Tony’s not only in charge, but right?”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

“Actually,” she said.  “Very.  Now will you please look at the book before I decide strangling you will make me feel better?”

“Are we talking autoerotic, or—“ James said.

She glared at him, and he smirked back, until finally she laughed.

“You’re incorrigible,” she said.  “Whoever finds the five best choices from his or her guide fastest gets the wall tonight.”

“Shit!” James said, and shammed rushing to get his guide open; within a minute they both were searching their travel guides intently.

Where _was_ Steve?

And was he really gone because he worried about whether Tony spending money on the Avengers was acceptable, or was there another reason?  There wasn’t anything she could point to or name about his note…but she didn’t like it.

And it hurt that he didn’t trust her enough to tell her he was going.  He’d said he trusted her with his life.  What was it that he didn’t trust her with?

Now she wished Clint had come with her instead of taking another one of Fury’s guilt missions, no matter how uncomfortable he was with James.  He’d better be back in two days, unharmed, or Nick Fury was going to have some explaining to do.

***

James’ top five choices were, in order:  Yellowstone National Park, Denver, Rocky Mountain National Park, San Francisco, Yosemite National Park, and Seattle.

“That’s six,” Talia told him.

“I’m counting Denver and Rocky Mountain National Park as one,” James said.

Talia frowned at him.

“Fine,” he said.  “Drop Seattle from the list.  Apparently it rains every fucking day there anyway.  Yellowstone, Denver, Rocky Mountain National Park, San Francisco, Yosemite.  Let’s hear your list.”

“Voyageurs National Park, Saint Louis, Midwest Museum of American Art, Richard Bong State Recreation Area, Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore,” Talia said.

“Damn,” James said.  “Your list sucks.  I win.”

“Voyageurs is my top choice by far,” she said.  “Then Saint Louis.  The others all require some backtracking.  And it’s not a competition; the point is to find Steve.  It doesn’t matter whose list it came from.”

“Maybe not to you,” he said.  “I’ve never heard of any of those places except Saint Louis, so I still win.”

“Your ignorance is not my problem,” Talia said, disregarding the fact that the same had been true for her an hour ago.  “How likely do you think each of your choices is?”

“San Francisco and Yosemite are pretty long shots,” he said.  “California’s a long fucking way—he’s got to have at least a couple stops along the way.  So:  Yellowstone and Denver and Rocky Mountain National Park, and I still say Denver and Rocky Mountain National Park count as one destination.  But between the two of us, that’s four likely options.  It’s still too fucking many.”

“So we do a little research,” she said.  “Start at the top of your list and I’ll start at the top of mine.”

“I have one more to check than you!” James groused.

“I thought Denver and Rocky Mountain National Park were the same,” she said sweetly.

“Ah, shit,” he said.  “It don’t matter.  I’m seventy-five percent sure it’s Yellowstone.”

An hour later he’d changed his mind.

“Fucking everything is closed at Yellowstone for another fucking month,” he said.  “Most of the entrances, half the park, every place to stay…  So it’s Denver.  Or maybe Rocky Mountain.”

“The more I learn about it, the more certain I am that he’s gone to Voyageurs,” she said.  “Northern Minnesota makes the most sense from Minneapolis, and there’s ice fishing—so if he wasn’t joking about that with Sam, he _can_ fish there.”

“Why the fuck would he just go colder and colder places?” James asked.  “Ice fishing? No fucking way.  I vote for Denver.”

“You were wrong about Mount Rushmore,” Talia said.

“I was not fucking wrong about it!” James said.  “I _know_ him, okay?  I fucking know him and you know it—you said I was the expert!  So he was coming here and something stopped him, or he was here and gone before we arrived; but either way he’s not fucking here now and we’ve got two damn days!  We gotta make a choice and either try Minneapolis or move on to somewhere else or go back to New York!”

“I agree,” Talia said.  “But I know him too.  And there’s no reason to come to Minneapolis unless he’s going to Voyageurs.”

“Where the fuck is this place?” he asked.  “And what the fuck do you do there besides ice fishing?”

Talia pulled out her guidebook and showed him.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he asked.  “The place is more water than land!”

“In the winter people ski, snowshoe, snowmobile…” she told him.  “There’s lots to do.”

“Steve has never done any of those fucking things,” James said.  “No way.”

“All the more reason it’s a good choice,” she retorted.  “He might like to try something new.”

“Give me that damn guidebook,” he said, and snatched it from her hands.  After thumbing through it for a moment, he thrust it back at her.  “Here.  This is why he’d go to Minneapolis, and that’s why Denver is the next step.”

She looked at the guidebook.

_Minneapolis Institute of Art.  The MIA’s permanent collection has grown from 800 works of art to more than 83,000 objects. The collection includes world-famous works that embody the highest levels of artistic achievement, spanning 5,000 years and representing the world’s diverse cultures across all continents. The MIA has seven curatorial areas: Arts of Africa & the Americas; Contemporary Art; Decorative Arts, Textiles & Sculpture; Asian Art; Paintings; Photography and New Media; and Prints and Drawings._

 

“So what are you suggesting he’s doing?” Talia asked.  “Some kind of art tour of the United States? Does he have an itinerary, or is he wandering aimlessly?  If he were, then I think he would have stopped at the Midwest Museum of American Art on the way to Chicago.  Apparently it’s fabulous.  But this is what really bothers me:  in my experience, Steve has _never_ lied.  _Never_.  And that note he sent Tony—he didn’t mention any of this.  What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” James said.  “Maybe he _did_ go to the Midwest Museum of What-the-Fuck on the way to Chicago.  He left on Friday and we didn’t start tracking him until Monday.”  He paused and took a deep breath.  “I don’t _know_.  But this is what I _think_ :  the note to Tony was bullshit.  Maybe he’s been thinking about whether or not it was right to take Stark’s money, so he’s not _lying_ , exactly; but it’s not why he left.  I’m not sure I can explain other than I got a feeling about it.  But—these are places he’s wanted to visit, not the end goal.  I don’t know what the hell is.  And I don’t know what the hell his problem is; but it’s a big fucking problem or he wouldn’t run like this, and as far as I know the last time anybody saw him was you and me, when he walked in on us in the conference room.”

Talia felt cold.

“It wasn’t ten minutes later that JARVIS said he felt sick and left the building,” she said.  “I forgot.  At the time I thought he was embarrassed and he’d get over it, and I wanted to find him because I was embarrassed—and I look up to him, so sue me—but once I learned he’d left town, I didn’t think that was what was wrong.”

“Well I think maybe it is,” James said.

Talia stared blankly at the guidebook in her hands.

“Does it matter?” she asked after a moment.  “We won’t know until we find him, and we don’t know where to go from here.”

“Fuck this fucking huge country,” James said.

Talia sighed.  “It could be worse,” she replied.  “It could be Russia.”

“Ain’t that the fucking truth,” he said.  “Thank God for small favors.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The translations (such as they are) for Natasha's Russian: 
> 
> _Slava Bogu!_ : Thank God!
> 
>  _ebanatyi pidaraz_ : Fucking mother fucker
> 
>  _yeban’ko maloletnee_ : adolescent jerk
> 
> And the paragraph James reads aloud about the Minneapolis Institute of Arts comes from the MIA website.


	14. The North Woods

***

 

_March 14th-March 18th_

Steve’s last morning in Minneapolis he rode his bike back over to Uptown and ran the lake loops a couple times.  It was a nice neighborhood—well kept, stately houses; and he remembered that Hansen had said he lived somewhere around here.  Steve wondered if he could see one of the lakes from his windows.  If he came out on the front porch to get his paper, would Steve be able to see him?

Boy, he needed to get his head on straight.  He had a lot of other things to work out, and this—it would be too easy to ignore the rest to focus on this.

This much was true:  he needed to read that book of Hansen’s.  He needed to figure out how to live with knowing this about himself.  And he needed to know what he was going to do about it, because he wasn’t sure that the answer was going to be as straightforward as “I’m going to do what I was doing.  I’m going to ignore it.”  Confession had been pretty hard last night, especially when he had just come from Hansen’s side.  The priest had been kind and understanding, but also firm about what God expected when it came to this kind of thing.  Steve had walked out of confession with a full slate of Hail Marys and Our Fathers assigned him; an admonition to turn his thoughts to God’s glory instead of men’s kisses, that he might remain chaste in body and mind; and a sick feeling in his stomach.

Because he couldn’t un-know it now that he realized he liked men, too.  That was going to make ignoring it a whole lot harder to do.

He kept remembering Hansen’s words from the night before, on the steps of Saint Stephen’s.  _I’m a hair away from kissing you on the steps of the church.  Lick your lips again, and it’s gonna happen._   What if he had?  What if he had closed the distance between them and lowered his mouth to Hansen’s?  Would his mouth have been sweet and warm?  Soft and giving, or firm and demanding?

Yeah, his thoughts weren’t chaste at all.

The thing was, he really liked Hansen; and Hansen had been open about wanting Steve.  He’d never had the opportunity with a man before—at least, not that he’d realized.  Maybe if he’d known…but he hadn’t.  Some wolf trying to take what he didn’t want to give when he was younger didn’t count.

And he planned to go back to New York.  So he was going to see Bucky again; and he was going to have to contend not only with seeing Bucky all the time, knowing Bucky didn’t want his friendship; but also that friendship was a shallow word to describe what Steve felt for Bucky.

Either way it was going to be a struggle.

He was glad Hansen had talked him into going north.  Really glad.

He returned to his hotel, cleaned up and had breakfast, then was back on the road again by 8:00 a.m.  It was another clear, dry day; a bright blue sky above a snowy landscape.  A little cold maybe, but otherwise perfect conditions for a ride.  Despite everything, it was a gift of peace to Steve’s unsettled mind.

Grand Marais was a little more than five hour’s ride from Minneapolis; and excepting Duluth, there wasn’t much but Lake Superior on his right and the woods on his left between the two places.  It was beautiful, and Steve felt like just about the only person in the world.  How unpopulated must South Dakota be that Hansen thought this was a safer option?  Contrarily, Steve was looking forward to that ride more than ever after making this one.  Somehow being alone like this was easier than being on his own in the midst of a city full of people.

He had nearly three weeks at Big Bear Lodge.  He’d spend as much of that time alone as he could, and maybe he’d have figured some things out by the time he went back to real life.

The folks at Big Bear were friendly, but they seemed to sense pretty quick that Steve wanted some time on his own.  They made sure he had everything he needed, but otherwise they let him be.  He tried everything Hansen had suggested except the fishing and canoeing—turned out it had been optimistic to think the ice might have melted enough for those.  He seemed to have come at the worst time for both, actually; too much ice yet for canoeing, but too thin in spots for safe ice fishing.  He thought he just might have to come back when it had warmed up some so he could try canoeing.

The ice fishing didn’t appeal near as much, but he’d think about it.

And snug in his room after dinner, he read the book Hansen had given him.  He didn’t know what he’d expected from a book called _What the Bible Really Says about Homosexuality_ ; but whatever it was, it wasn’t this.  Daniel Helminiak wasn’t some kind of church-hater.  He had been a priest, and he’d spent a lot of time thinking about and researching what he had to say.  His writing was clear and cogent; and each night when Steve put the book aside to go to sleep, he was questioning the Catholic church’s teachings about queers more.  He wasn’t sure how to reconcile that with being a faithful Catholic.  He had a lot to chew on, and once again he was glad he had some time and solitude to do it.

He called Sam to check in on Wednesday.

“You sound better, Cap,” he said.  He sounded relieved.

“Yeah,” Steve replied.  “I didn’t know how bad I needed this until I was here.  I’m good.  Figuring some things out, but good.”

“Good,” Sam said.  “I admit I was a little worried.”

“That’s cause you’re a worry wart,” Steve teased.

“Nah,” Sam said.  “I don’t think so.  But I’m feeling better about it.”

“Thanks,” Steve said.  “Before I forget—for the next while, I’m not going to have cell phone service much.  Another two weeks.  If you want me, email’s the way to go.”

“Just how far out in the boonies are you, Cap?” Sam asked.

“Nothing but water and wilderness for miles and miles,” Steve said.  “Never seen anything like it.  It’s great.”

“All right,” Sam said.  “Listen—The Avengers called again.  You want to drop ‘em a line so they can stop fretting?”

“I’ll think about it,” Steve said.  “I’m a little afraid Natasha could talk me into going back before I’m ready.  Or worse, figure out where I am and join me.”

“I don’t know,” Sam said.  “That woman in a bikini?  Sounds like a plus to me.”

Steve laughed.  “She told me she doesn’t wear bikinis anymore,” he said.  “And I suspect we have pretty different ideas about what relaxing entails.  I’m a little scared to think about what she does to kick back.  I can’t picture her happy with nothing much to do but watch the sun set over the water.”

“Maybe not,” Sam said.  “You take care, Cap.”

“I will,” Steve said.  “I am.”

He felt pretty good when he hung up.  He bit his lip for a moment, and then he started dialing again.

“Hansen,” was the abrupt answer on the other end of the line.

“It’s Steve,” he said.  

The change in Hansen’s tone of voice was startling and very, very welcome.

“Steve,” he said.  “Hang on a sec.”  Hansen gave some muffled instructions to someone, and a door shut, and then there was quiet.  “It’s good to hear your voice, Brooklyn.”

“Yeah,” Steve said.  “I—yeah.”

“You having a good time?” Hansen asked.  “I didn’t expect to hear from you until you were back in town.”

“It’s great,” Steve said.  “Beautiful, peaceful—everything you said it was.  I’m glad you talked me into it.”

“Bullied you into it, you mean,” Hansen laughed.

“Nah,” Steve said.  “I don’t like bullies.  Never have.”  He bit his lip and took a deep breath.  “But you—I like you.  I like you a lot.”

There was a long pause on the other end; and Steve was starting to get worried, when Hansen finally spoke.  Not that he said much, but it was there.

“Steve,”  he said.  “Steve.”

They were quiet for a while as Steve pushed down the urge to gush.  He wasn’t the kind of guy who was comfortable with that.

“I’ve been reading that book,” he said.  “It’s interesting.  Lot of things to think about.”

“Yeah?” Hansen asked hoarsely.

“Yeah,” Steve said.  He paused.  Getting this all out—this was hard, saying this.  “You know I’m new to this.  All of this.  And I have commitments in New York.  I’m headed back there eventually.  I don’t know.  It’s crazy to think like this.”

“Oh, God,” Hansen said.  “Do you know what you’re doing to me?”

“Maybe,” Steve said.  “I got a little idea.”

Steve’s phone started buzzing.  Why was Sam calling him back already?

“Listen, I’m getting another call,” Steve said.  “I’d better take it in case it’s work.  I just.  I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“I’m about this close to dropping everything and driving up there,” Hansen said.  He sounded—  Boy.  He sounded wrecked.

“Don’t,” Steve said.  “Let me call you back, okay?”

“Yeah,” Hansen said.  “Yeah, okay.  Call me back.”

Steve clicked over to the other call.

“Sam?” he said.

“No.  It’s your other favorite flying man,” Tony Stark replied.  Steve pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it in disbelief.  “Cap?” sounded faintly from the speaker.  “You still there, Cap?”  He put the phone back to his ear.

“Did Sam give you this number?” he asked.

“He said you didn’t want Widow to have it,” Stark said.  “I promise I’ll keep it secret.  And, by the way, kudos to you for ditching the other phone.  I didn’t know you were so tech savvy.”

“What?” Steve asked.

“Ditching the other phone,” Stark repeated.  “Widow was tracing that one.”

Now that was a surprise.

“How did she do that?” he asked.  “How did she even have the number?”

“Said she got it from your little birdie,” Stark said.  “She’s been keeping an eye on you since the Tuesday after you left.  Knew you left Chicago and were in Minneapolis Friday morning, but then you were gone without a trace when she tried to call.”

“That’s not—“ Steve started.  “I didn’t think you could trace a phone if you hadn’t put a GPS or a tracking app on it,” he said.  “I broke my phone and had to get a new one.”

Stark started laughing.

“Stark—“ Steve tried to say, but Stark was laughing too hard to shut up and listen.  Steve waited until he finished.  

He had to wait a while.

“ _Stark_ ,” he said.

“Call me Tony, would you, Cap?” Stark said.  “What is it with you geezers?”

Steve didn’t know what that meant, so he ignored it.

“Fine,” he said.  “Tony.  Tell me how she tracked me, because I don’t want her coming after me thinking she’s gonna drag me back to New York.  I’ll come back when I’m ready; but it’ll be on my timetable, not hers.”

“She won’t hear about it from me,” Tony said.  “So.  Here’s the deal:  as long as she knows your mobile number, she can find out where you are.  Even if your phone is off.  She can turn it on remotely and tell it to send out a GPS pulse.  You do know what GPS is, don’t you, Capsicle?”

“Son of a gun,” Steve said.  “There’s no way to stop her?”

“If she has your phone number, the only way to prevent a trace is to take out your battery,” Tony said.  “So your best bet is to make sure she doesn’t get your number.  But I promise if she does, it won’t be from me.”

“Okay,” Steve said.  “Thanks.  I guess I better call Sam and ask him to keep it to himself.  He told me she called.  I can’t believe he didn’t tell me he gave her my number.”

“Don’t be too hard on him,” Tony said.  “The woman has wiles.”

“Now that I know,” Steve said.

“And you better be careful, Rip Van Winkle, because the Back in Black Crew is on the rampage,” Tony said.  “They couldn’t trace you anymore, but they figured out you were headed to Mount Rushmore.  Widow was _seriously_ pissed when they missed you—especially when they didn’t know where to go from there.”

Steve laughed.

“I was going to Rushmore next,” he said.  “I haven’t been yet.  A friend convinced me to try the North Woods first.”

“The where?” Tony asked.  “No, don’t tell me—It has ‘woods’ in the name; I don’t care.  Go back to that other part.  You have friends, Cap?  Other than us and Bird Boy, I mean.  You’ve been holding out on me.”

“I’ve made a friend or two,” Steve said.  “Best part of a cross country road trip is meeting people.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Tony replied.  “As far as I’m concerned, Manhattan is connected to Malibu by a barren desert and the only way to get from one to the other is by private plane.”

“You are a true man of the people, Stark,” Steve said.

“The people need a role model to aspire to,” Tony said.  He paused.  “And I said call me Tony.  Look.  I’ve got to go before the Dynamic Duo catch me on the phone with you, and I still have a couple things I want to say.  So shut up.”

Steve gritted his teeth.

“I’m listening,” he said.

“Good,” Tony said.  “First of all, thanks for the new training plan.  I might have tried it and it might have been awesome.”

“Oh yeah,” Steve said.  “I forgot about those.  You’re welcome.”

“JARVIS told me about them when we realized you’d skipped town instead of staying tucked in bed with chicken soup like a good boy,” Tony said.  “And by the way—your boy goes a little nuts when he thinks you’re sick.  Next time you need to sneak away, tell us you went on a week long drinking binge instead of insinuating you might have the flu.”

“I don’t think it’ll come up,” Steve replied.  “I don’t plan to make this a habit.  And you do know I can’t get drunk, right?”

“Yeah?” Oh boy.  Tony sounded intrigued.  “I read Erskine thought there was some chance of that, but if Dad knew he never put it in his notes.  I’ll think about some possibilities.  Maybe Bruce and I can whip something up.”

“Please don’t,” Steve said.  “Please.”

“Don’t fuss,” Tony said.  “It’s no problem, Cap.  It’ll be fun.”

Oh boy.

“I’m not gonna be able to convince you to leave it be, am I?” Steve asked.

“No,” Tony replied.  “Now—that second thing.”

“Yeah?” Steve said.

“If we need you, all that Stark tech the Bobbsey Twins don’t have access to right now?  They’re gonna have access,” Tony said.

“I’ve read those books,” Steve said.

“I’ve been researching ancient cultural references just for you, Capsicle,” Tony said.

“You won’t have to send someone to get me,” Steve said.

“Good,” Tony said.  “I’d hate for you to have to make the walk of shame.  Old Fogey versus Spies-R-Us is the best entertainment I’ve had in a long time.”

“Thanks,” Steve said.  “I think.  Hey—while you’re reading old children’s books, try Kate Seredy.  I met her once—neat lady.”

“I’ll start a list,” Tony said.  “See you, Cap.”

Steve frowned at his phone after Tony disconnected.   Natasha could be persuasive, but he was disappointed Sam had broken his trust like that.  He dialed Sam’s number.  When Sam answered, he didn’t even say hello.

“Why didn’t you tell me you gave Natasha my old number?” he asked.

“Whoa there, cowboy,” Sam said.  “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t give her your number.  However she got it, it wasn’t from me.”

“Nobody else had it,” Steve said.  “So it had to be you.”

There was a pause.

“That—“ Sam said.  “She wouldn’t think twice about breaking in to my place, would she?”

Oh.  Steve relaxed.  If Natasha got it in her head to come after him, she wouldn’t think twice about the ethics of how she got it done.

“Nope,” he said.

“Well, I had the number on a sticky note on the fridge,” Sam said.  “Didn’t have your name or anything; I called it _gone fishing_.  And when she called me that—when was it?  Tuesday, I guess…  Yeah.  Anyway.  I might have given it away, because I made a joke about you going fishing somewhere.  But there’s no way she could’ve known unless she saw that note.”

“Okay,” Steve said.  “It’s fine.  We’ll both know to be more careful with her now.”

“No kidding,” Sam said.  “I promise she won’t get it from me again, Cap.”

“I know,” Steve said.  “Thanks, Sam.  I’m sorry about the way I reacted.”

“Nah,” Sam said.  “What else were you supposed to think?”

They said goodbye, and Steve hung up and pursed his lips as he stared out the window at the lake.  He didn’t like what Tony had said about Natasha and Clint being on a rampage.  He bet knowing he was fine wouldn’t matter to Natasha.  It was going to be a point of pride to find him now.

Well.  Hansen’s suggestion was turning out to be a good thing for more than one reason.  How on earth had they worked out that he was going to Mount Rushmore?  They would have caught him there if not for Hansen.  He smiled to himself and dialed Hansen’s number again.

“Brooklyn,” Hansen answered.  “Please tell me you don’t have to go back to New York yet.”

“I don’t have to go back to New York yet,” Steve said.  “There was an incident, but it seems to have solved itself.”

“You do not know how happy that makes me,” Hansen said.

“Yeah?” he said.  “How happy?”

“I am this close to dropping everything, Brooklyn,” Hansen said.  “ _This_ close.”

“Well, don’t do that,” Steve said.  “I’m looking forward to seeing you again, okay?  I’m looking forward to it a lot.  But it’s a lot to think about.  I’m still putting my head together.  I need this.”

“Yeah, okay,” Hansen said.  “Wanna flirt some more?”

Steve laughed.  Yeah.  He really sort of did.

 


	15. Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's time in the North Woods comes to an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who'd like an idea of where Steve is: Big Bear Lodge is on the shores of [Poplar Lake](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/92541099033/i-couldnt-find-a-photograph-of-a-winter-sunset).

***

 

_March 19th-April 2nd_

Steve called Hansen every three or four days while he was in the North Woods.  The calls were never long; both of them got too intense too fast for that.  Steve got jitters in his stomach pretty quick when he thought about seeing Hansen again.  He’d finished Helminiak’s book, and he still had some questions.

There was a sentence right at the beginning of the book that had caught Steve right where he lived:  _there must be a reason why something is wrong, and it must be for that very reason that God forbids the thing_.

Steve had always relied on the church to explain what the Bible meant—that was what priests _did_.  But Helminiak had been to seminary, had been a priest; and he’d come to different conclusions about what the Bible meant when it came to this stuff.

It just made sense—God had reasons for forbidding what He did—so if there wasn’t some kind of reason something was wrong, just ‘it’s wrong because the church says so’…

Because Steve couldn’t see how this hurt anyone.  It seemed like more people got hurt trying to ignore this part of themselves than the other way around.

He wanted to sit down with Monseigneur Ritchie and talk about it.  He got a little lost in all the arguments about the meanings of various translations of words.  He wanted to ask an expert about it.  _Morally wrong, unethical, unclean, impure, socially unacceptable, atypical, not customary_ …  How was a guy supposed to parse the differences between all of those?

And there was another line that grabbed Steve, from Romans.  It was clear and it made sense to him and it seemed more important than any of the other places the Bible used these words, whatever they meant:  _I know and am persuaded that nothing is unclean in itself_.  That the rules about clean and unclean didn’t matter to God.  That the most important things were faith in God and love.

That idea squared with everything Steve had ever been taught God wanted.  And if that was right, then…

Maybe love could exist in a way he hadn’t thought it could.  The thing was, he _loved_ Bucky.  He knew it.  He always had and he always would.  Yeah, he wanted him too.  But that—it came after.  He’d never have it, but that didn’t matter.  He didn’t love Bucky ‘cause of how Bucky felt about him.  There weren’t conditions on it.  

If there ever came a time when he didn’t love Bucky, he didn’t think he’d _be_ Steve Rogers anymore.  Helminiak quoted a line from the Bible that went to the heart of that for Steve, too:

_The soul of Jonathan was bound to the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul…_

Yeah.

Yeah, that was the way it was.

But asking Monseigneur Ritchie about this would have to wait until he was back in New York, and in the meantime…

In the meantime, he was thinking more and more about doing things with Hansen that he’d need to be confessing later.  He hadn’t come looking for this, but it was something he’d been waiting a long time for.  He liked Hansen.  He liked him a lot. 

He was a little mortified by how much he wanted him.  Keeping his thoughts chaste was hard.

He didn’t know what was going to happen, if he would someday feel for Hansen what he felt for Peggy—or even what he felt for Bucky.  But it felt like the seed of it was there, and he sure wanted to give it a chance to grow.

In the meantime, he explored the North Woods.  There wasn’t a lot of running he could do unless he stuck to the road; but he could go just about anywhere on skies or snowshoes, if the trees weren’t too thick.  It was easier if there was a road or a track of some kind, or an iced over lake; but it wasn’t impossible otherwise.

Most nights he watched the sunset over Poplar Lake before eating dinner at Big Bear or one of another couple places down Gunflint Trail (One place had homemade pie, a new kind every day.  Steve ate there a lot.)  After dinner he retreated to his room to read—first, Helminiak again.  Then he headed into Grand Marais, bought a Kindle, and downloaded a few more books on the subject.  And five different translations of the Bible.

He still didn’t understand all the arguments about why one translation of a word was better than another translation of it.

But the more he read, the more it seemed to him that the Catholic church couldn’t be right about this.  Thinking it made Steve feel a little sick.  He wasn’t a priest.  He’d never studied theology.  He didn’t read Hebrew or Greek.  Who was he to question the church’s teachings?  

He felt a little like a charlatan going to the Palm Sunday Mass in Grand Marais on what was his last Sunday in the North Woods.  Like somehow folks were going to know about his doubts just by sitting next to him in the pew.  Like the priest could stand up to deliver the homily and pick him out of the congregation from it.

But while he might have questions about what the church said, he didn’t have any about God.  He was just trying to know what God wanted for His Creation.  Steve had relied on the church to help him understand that for all his life.  He still would be if Hansen hadn’t shown him how he’d been hiding from himself, so that he had to consider the truth of an issue he never had before.

He hadn’t ever been much for doing what he was told ‘just because,’ whoever it was doing the telling.  He’d joined the Army after five separate doctors told him he couldn’t.  He’d gone after Bucky in that Hydra camp though he expected to be court-martialed after.  He’d kept quiet about the thumb drive Fury gave him despite Alexander Pierce’s insistence that he tell him what he knew.

And the other major argument—that men and women should come together only when they were married, and only to have children?  Because that was what marriage was about; and that’s what it was for, and that’s it?  

Anything that might make a person feel good—that didn’t matter.  That should be avoided.  Even when a man and a woman were married, they shouldn’t seek that.  Almost like it’d be better if they didn’t enjoy what they did in bed.  That made no sense to Steve at all.

And none of them explained why God made people to—to have bodies that—that when they did things with those bodies that felt good—Why would God do that when people were supposed to avoid doing those things at all costs?

The more he thought about it, the harder it was to deny that’s what he wanted.  It’s what he had wanted from Bucky for years—what he still wanted from Bucky if he was honest with himself, though he knew that wasn’t ever going to happen.  And he wanted it from Hansen.

And Lord help him, with Hansen he could have it, if he reached out and took what Hansen was offering.

He and Hansen had made plans to meet at the Eagle for a late lunch the day he was headed back to Minneapolis.  As much as he had loved his time in the North Woods, he was ready to go back.

_I’m a hair away from kissing you on the steps of the church.  Lick your lips again, and it’s gonna happen._

Steve was a mess thinking about it.  He wanted it.  He was afraid of it, too.  So far all Steve had done was think and want.  Kissing a man would be stepping across a pretty clear line as far as what the church taught.

He didn’t dare think for long about what might come after kissing, but it was getting harder to push those thoughts down.

So Steve was early for his lunch with Hansen, and when he got to the Eagle, he went inside only long enough to see that Hansen wasn’t there before going back out to pace the sidewalk.  He was going to explode from nerves otherwise.

He didn’t pay much attention to the couple approaching the Eagle other than to swerve around them as he paced; but when he turned around to walk the other way, they were standing right in his way.  The one guy was tall and lanky, and he was gripping the sleeve of his friend’s jacket so hard his fingers were white.  He had dark eyes and dark hair, cut short; and an impressive beard; and what Steve knew he wasn’t supposed to see that way, but couldn’t help but think of as a Jewish nose.  His friend was African-American, a little shorter and a whole lot more muscular.  His head was shaved like Nick Fury’s; but he had gold rings in his ears, so the effect struck Steve a lot more like a pirate than a Machiavellian-minded spy.  Steve nodded curtly and stepped to the side to avoid them, but the tall Jewish-looking guy stepped in his way.

“Captain America,” he said.  He was pretty excited.  “ _Cap_.”

Uh oh.

“Sorry,” Steve said.  “You’ve made a mistake.”  He tried to get around the guy again, but he just moved right back into Steve’s path.  Ah, c’mon.  Now?  He did not need this right now.

“Right here in Minneapolis,” the guy-who-was-probably-Jewish said.  “Captain Steven Grant Rogers.  Born in Brooklyn, New York’s Vinegar Hill neighborhood to his mother Sarah, on July 4th, 1918.  Father, Joseph Rogers, deceased only two months before on May 9th of that same year.  On June 22nd, 1943, Project Rebirth’s sole experimental subject to receive Abraham Erskine’s Super-Soldier serum; went down in the Arctic Ocean on March 5th, 1945; was found and revived four years ago.  Well, three years, nine months, and nineteen days ago.”

This guy was trouble.  Steve turned to his friend.

“I don’t want to be rude; but your friend doesn’t seem to take no for an answer,” he said.  “You’ve got the wrong guy.”

“Ain’t no way Ben’s wrong,” the friend said.  “Not about this.  If he says you’re Captain America, you’re Captain America.”

Of all the times for this to happen…  Steve turned back to the first guy—Ben, apparently—to try to persuade him to move aside; but Ben was stepping forward, and Steve found himself crowded back against the wall, hemmed in by the both of them.  He could have pushed his way past them, sure; but that would cause exactly the sort of scene he didn’t want, especially with Hansen on the way.

“Captain America, right here,” Ben said.  He was nearly dancing on the sidewalk, he was bouncing so much.  “In Minneapolis, outside the _Eagle_.  Ah, fuck.  This is like—  Please tell me you’re here for your first gay threesome.  Malik and I are going to be first in line.”

Steve looked at Malik.

“Your friend’s a little crazy, you know that?” he said.

“When it comes to you, damn straight he is,” Malik said.  “Let me tell you a little bit about my boy.  Ben here is about eight months away from his Ph.D. in American history; just finishing up his dissertation, really.  And that dissertation?  Is on the significant figures in American propaganda during World War Two.  You know what that means?”

Steve shook his head, but it was more in denial than lack of understanding.  Yeah, he knew what that meant.

“It means Ben is getting his damn doctorate  in _Captain America_ ,” Malik continued.  “So if he says you’re the man, you’re the man.”

Steve covered his face.

“No, Cap, please,” Ben said.  “Please don’t be like that.  This is—I don’t even know what this is.  I don’t begin to have the words.  But _please_.  You have to let me interview you.  I’ll do anything.”  He started to step even closer, but Steve got a hand up on his chest before he could.  He didn’t seem daunted by it.  “ _Anything_ ,” he repeated.

Steve huffed in frustration.

“Fine,” he said.  “Fine.  I _am_ Steve Rogers.  But I am _not_ here as Captain America; I am here as a private citizen, and I have a date who is gonna be here any second.  So if you could please back off before he gets here, I would appreciate it.”

“Yeah,” Hansen said.  _Uh oh_.  His voice was—he was not happy.  “It’s too late for that.”  Steve pushed Ben out of his way and hurried towards Hansen; but Hansen held up shaking hands, and Steve stopped short.

“Hansen,” he said.

“You fucking liar,” Hansen said.  “I cannot believe this shit.”

Steve shook his head.

No,” he said.  “I didn’t lie.  You knew I was holding back some.  But every word I said to you was the truth.”

“Yeah?” Hansen asked.  “Well, my thinking is that Captain America is more than ‘not out.’  Captain America is so deep in the closet, it is like—  Your closet is the fucking hidden crawl space in the second basement.  My thinking is that what Captain America does is ‘law enforcement’ like a preschool dance class is the New York City Ballet.  I am not ready for this.  In no way did I sign up for this.”

“I don’t want someone who wants Captain America,” Steve said.  “You like me for _me_.  You like Steve Rogers.  You know you do.”  He took a couple slow steps towards Hansen.  “And I like you.  I’ve been going crazy thinking about you.  I don’t know what’s going to happen with coming out, because I’m pretty sure that’s going to be one colossal mess.  But please give me a little time to figure it out.”

Hansen shook his head.

“Look, Steve, I—“ he said.  His voice broke, and he pursed his lips and shook his head again.  When he spoke at last, his voice was hoarse.  “Take all the time you need.”  And he turned and walked away.

For one long moment, Steve scrubbed his face with his hands.  Then he turned, took three big steps, and punched the side of the building next to the Eagle.  Bricks crumbled beneath his fist.  _Ah, crap.  That was just_ —  He did it again, and his fist went through one of the studs in the wall.

“Oo-kay,” Malik said behind him.  “Ben, you are going to have to chalk this one up to the vagaries of fate.”

“But—“ Ben protested.

“That man is not in the mood to talk to you today,” Malik said.  “That man may not be in the mood to talk to you ever.  Come on, baby.”

Steve blinked a couple times and scrubbed his face again.  He was so bad at this.  He was just not cut out for this.  What did it matter what the church taught about sex?  What did it matter what Steve wanted, whether he wanted it with his body or his heart?  He wouldn’t ever have it.  He couldn’t hang on to anything that might turn into love.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and he walked into the yoga place and gave them a stack of cash to pay for repairs to their wall, and then he walked out of the yoga place and climbed straight on his bike.  His date seemed to be cancelled.  He might as well keep going.

Except for his time as a dancing monkey, he’d always loved being Captain America.  It was a big responsibility, but Steve couldn’t imagine doing anything else.  He couldn’t stand by.  He was never going to be that guy.

Right that moment, though, he kind of hated him.

It was about eleven at night when Steve pulled up to Mount Rushmore National Monument.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the ranger at the gate told him.  “The park closes in ten minutes.”

Figured.  Steve sighed.

“Okay,” he said.  “When does it open in the morning?”

“Five a.m.,” the ranger said.  “But the sun’s not up until about 6:45.”

“Great,” Steve said.  “I’ll be back tomorrow.  Can you tell me somewhere close by to stay?”

“I’m sorry, sir; as a representative of the U.S. Park Service, I can’t make recommendations,” the ranger replied.

Steve closed his eyes; and there must have been something on his face, because the ranger relented.

“You got a map?” he said.  “I’ll mark the way to Buffalo Rock Lodge for you.  Art and Marilyn run a nice place, and you look like you need it.  Just don’t tell them I sent you.  It’s going to be almost 11:30 by the time you get there.  And be careful in the dark.”

“Thanks,” Steve said.  “I will.”  He looked at the route the ranger had marked, wheeled his bike around, and turned onto the road that would take him to the lodge.

Maybe things would look better in the morning.  He was so tired of wanting things he couldn’t have.

He was just so tired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hate me?
> 
> A couple of folks have asked for some timeline clarification, [so here you go](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/92628065948/timeline-for-as-a-cruel-mistress-woos).


	16. On the Road Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a [timeline](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/92628065948/timeline-for-as-a-cruel-mistress-woos) on my tumblr for anyone who wants to clarify when the chapters (up to this point) happen.

***

 

_April 3rd_

The guy at the lodge didn’t look happy to answer the door so late at night; but they did have a room available, so Steve took it and thanked him and went to bed.  It was late and it had been some kind of day, but it took him a long time to fall asleep.  Thinking about the look on Hansen’s face made his throat tight and closed up.  Steve didn’t know what to do about it.  He had no practice at this kind of thing.  He had historically proven himself terrible at it.  But he liked Hansen a lot.  And he’d done a lot of soul-searching about whether or not it was okay to do that—to want that.

He wasn’t ready to just let it go.

Buffalo Rock Lodge turned out to be a bed and breakfast, and they weren’t kidding around with the breakfast.  It was big and hot, and Steve hadn’t eaten lunch or dinner the day before.  He ate until he couldn’t eat another bite.  Marilyn fussed over him a little bit, and Steve found himself wishing he could stay longer.  The land out here was nothing like New York, or Minneapolis, or anywhere Steve had ever been.  He wanted to get to know it better.  When he mentioned it to Art, his host laughed.

“Mount Rushmore’s just the tip of what there is to see out here,” he said.  “Really, if that’s all you do, you’re missing the best of the area.  The Black Hills…  Badlands, Custer Park, the Crazy Horse Memorial…”

“You can’t send him out to Crazy Horse,” Marilyn said.  “It’s not right.”

“He deserves a monument just as much as those four at Mount Rushmore,” Art said.

“You know that’s not the problem with that memorial,” Marilyn said.  “He would have hated the very idea of it.”

“Well, Marilyn and I aren’t the only ones who disagree about the Crazy Horse Memorial,” Art said.  “I have some brochures you can read, and you can decide if you want to go.  You have a deadline for when you have to get where you’re going?”

Steve shook his head.

“I planned on Yellowstone next,” he said.  He didn’t mention Minneapolis.  They didn’t need to know that he’d planned on spending a bit of time there before he ever made it this far.

He was still hoping Hansen would cool down enough that he might welcome Steve back in a day or two.

“No, you can’t miss that,” Art said.  “But if you have a day or two to spend here first, I think it’s worth it.”

He guessed he could if he wanted.  So he took some of the brochures Art offered him, and he asked if he could call later to reserve his room for another night.

“I have a friend I was hoping to meet up with,” he said.  “I want to check in with him before I say whether or not I’m staying.”

So he had a plan for the day.  He was going to Mount Rushmore, and he was going to call Hansen as soon as it was a reasonable time of day; and then he was either going back to Minneapolis or staying another day or two, depending on what Hansen said.

Dusted with snow, Mount Rushmore was pretty incredible, and more serene than Steve had imagined.  But aside from looking at the presidents carved into the cliffside, there wasn’t much more to do.  He looked his fill, and hiked the small loop up and around the carving, checked the time, and fidgeted and paced until he could call Hansen. 

Hansen didn’t take his call.  Not at 9:00 a.m. and not at 9:30 a.m.  Steve sighed and left a message before he called Art and Marilyn to ask if he could stay a couple more nights.

“We’ll be happy to have you,” Marilyn replied.  “There’s dessert every night, but no dinner—so eat before you come back or you’ll be headed back out again.  A man who eats like you can’t be skipping meals.”

He laughed and hung up, and turned his face to the south.  Wind Cave in the morning, Custer State Park in the afternoon, dinner in the town of Custer…and maybe he’d try to call Hansen again that evening when he got back to Buffalo Rock Lodge.  Giving the man a solid twenty-four hours was probably a good idea.  Hansen might be more willing to talk after a full day to digest Steve’s identity.  He owed Sam a call to check in, too.

Wind Cave was interesting, especially to a guy who’d never been in a cave before.  Usually he planned ahead, though; and since he’d left Minneapolis in such a hurry, he hadn’t done any of that.  Not that it would have helped in this instance, not unless he came back in the summer.

“Nothing but the Garden of Eden Tour?” he asked the ranger who’d given him the tour schedule.  “That’s it?”  The ranger shook her head.

“Sorry, sir,” she said.  “This time of year, we don’t have a lot of visitors, and we can’t offer all our tours.  We just don’t maintain the staff for it.”

“Right,” Steve said with a sigh.  “I understand.  I guess I’ll do that, then.”

The ranger looked at him, sighed, and shook her head.

“I hope you use this power for good,” she said.  “Let me call my supervisor.  Maybe someone could take you on another tour.  Did you have one in mind?”

“The Caving Tour, if it’s not too much trouble,” Steve said.  “But I don’t get what you mean—what ‘power?’”

“Anybody ever tell you you look like Captain America?” she asked.  “That, combined with the puppy dog eyes…  It’s too much.”  Steve felt his face grow hot; and she laughed and called her supervisor, who was resistant until he came down and Steve turned his “puppy dog eyes” on him.  “I told you,” the ranger said.  She seemed to find the whole thing amusing, now that she wasn’t the only one Steve had guilted into making an exception just for him.

So Steve got his Caving Tour.  He was relieved to find he wasn’t the only one on it.  When the rangers had announced that there would be a Caving Tour offered out of season, three other visitors to Wind Cave wanted to take it as well.

Secretly he liked the idea of “the power of puppy dog eyes.”  He was pretty sure that hadn’t come from the serum.  That was all him, and he got a kick out of thinking that he’d had a super power before he became Captain America.

Though he’d have thought something like that would have gotten him a few more dates if it were true.  Probably didn’t work until paired with the Captain America jaw.

When he left Wind Cave National Park five hours later, Steve was dirty, his clothes ripped in a couple places, and happy as could be.  He’d taken the Garden of Eden Tour while he waited for his specially scheduled Caving Tour to start, and it was interesting—though not as fun as exploring with the Caving Tour.  Before he left, he got the name of the ranger who had helped him.  When he got back to New York, he was going to send her an autographed photo—something he usually did only for children.  They’d both get a laugh out of it.

After spending the morning crawling on his belly, Steve was glad to have a chance to stretch his legs some once he arrived at Custer State Park.  The park was beautiful—a snowy expanse of rolling prairie watched over by sentinel hills.  And for all the times he’d wished that he’d made this trip in the summer, at that moment he was glad to be at Custer at the tail end of winter.  The landscape was a sparkling white, like snow in the city was only when it first fell.  And it was like he could see the bones of the land, without the blanket of grass it usually wore.  He took a lot of pictures.  He’d be sketching this for a long time.

He nearly dropped his phone when he saw the bison.  He had only his fast reflexes to thank that he caught it.  Breaking two phones in less than a month—he was burning through his money with this trip anyway.  He didn’t need to be buying new phones every other week.

But the immense creatures were incredible.  Astounding in their size and presence, and stately like Steve hadn’t known an animal could be.  They moved slowly as a group, often stopping to push the snow aside with their heads and graze at the grass beneath.  They were so dignified—almost regal.

And then they lifted their heads, and they looked like they’d been hit in the face with a snowball.  Steve laughed out loud.  One rolled in the snow, and the snow clinging to its back—Steve couldn’t get the picture out of his head:  the bison herd packing the snow with their front hooves then flinging the resulting balls at each other with their horns, having a snowball fight like a bunch of kids running around Brooklyn Bridge Park after a snowstorm.  He’d be that scrawny looking, paler one over on that slight rise, and Bucky the stocky one who stuck close to the little guy and shook his head aggressively at any other bison who came close like he was ready to fend off bison bullies.

He pulled out his little sketchbook and dashed out a few lines of the idea so he wouldn’t forget, then took about a hundred pictures of the animals before moving on.  He was still grinning as he walked away.

His grin faded a little as he thought about how much Bucky would have laughed when Steve showed him the sketch, back before.  But he shook it off.  He knew Bucky would have liked it then, and what he’d think now didn’t have any bearing on it.

That guy wasn’t Bucky, he was _Barnes_ ; and he wasn’t going to let what Barnes might think take away any of the joy he had in imagining what Bucky would have said when he saw it.

“Holy cow, Steve—they’re huge!  But how come I’m that grouchy one?  I ain’t grouchy!”  He would’ve mugged a thunderous frown, like Mister Balkus from downstairs made whenever Bucky and Steve came in or out.  Bucky had always pounded up and down the stairs like it was a contest to see who could be the fastest and noisiest.  Boy, Mister Balkus had hated it.  Neither of them understood what he muttered as they passed him on their way to Steve’s apartment, but they could tell he was mad—he spat out the words like they were watermelon seeds.

He’d sure liked Steve’s mom, though.  She got a smile and a tip of his hat, a hand with parcels, and doors held open for her—  Not every lady who came by got that treatment from Mister Balkus.

He’d had wet eyes at Steve’s mom’s funeral, and he’d put his big hand heavy on Steve’s shoulder.

“Too good she was for this wicked earth,” he’d said.  “God took her for an angel.”  Steve had nodded without really taking in what he’d said.  When he’d thought about it later, he’d hidden his face in his pillow and cried until his eyes were swollen and his nose wouldn’t stop running.  The next morning he and Mister Balkus had exchanged solemn nods.  Steve had squared his shoulders and firmed his jaw, and Mister Balkus smiled a little in approval before he stepped inside his apartment and closed the door.

That might have been the last time he saw Mister Balkus, come to think of it.  He couldn’t afford to stay in the place he and his mom had lived, not on his own; and soon after he’d moved into a crowded place on Hudson Avenue about half a dozen guys shared.

Look at how his life had changed.  That kid had barely left a nine block square of Brooklyn—and when he had, he’d only gone as far as another borough.  And now—

He’d seen a lot, even before his long sleep.  He’d been ready to go into that cool blue peace after his fight with Schmidt.  It had felt—not like he had lived out his allotted span, not like he wanted it; but like it was a good finish.  Short, maybe.  But worth it.

And he’d come out of the ice to find the world changed in so many fantastical ways.  That things he would have thought couldn’t be anything but stories out of books were real.  That things which had seemed so simple were almost unbearably complex in the future, and he was swept under by a new wave of them each and every confusing day.

He’d squared his jaw and firmed his shoulders again, and he’d suited up and faced forward.  He didn’t know what else to do.

Maybe he should have come out here and drawn bison instead.  He couldn’t have turned away when he was asked to defend New York, but those months he hid in an old-style gym, or wandered the streets of a home he didn’t recognize, or tried to capture the mad future in sketches before he gave up in frustration and threw his sketchbook away…

Those months he should have packed up and gone somewhere completely unlike his life before.  Somewhere like this.

And maybe the year after, the year he worked for S.H.I.E.L.D.—that year might have been better spent learning how to cross-country ski, or playing darts with a pushy guy with beautiful, wise eyes and not much hair to speak of.

He couldn’t have done it.  He had a duty, and he couldn’t turn his back on that.  But he was beginning to think he’d been pretty close to breaking for a long time; and until he was able to let go of Bucky, those cracks weren’t going to mend.

He still wasn’t sure what he was going to hold on to instead.  But that afternoon, a herd of bison with snowy faces and a wide expanse of land under a clean blue sky…That would work for a little while.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Bison in winter](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/92819678508/a-bison-in-winter-has-it-been-grazing-under-the).


	17. Badlands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve visits Badlands Wilderness Area in this chapter--a place I've never been. I wrote this based on pictures and reading I could find on-line, but they didn't always match up. In particular: I had to make some decisions on how to describe natural features that were mentioned in the hike Steve takes without any corresponding photos. Please forgive me for any inaccuracies, and feel free to correct my geography!
> 
> p.s. Check your seatbelts, please--it's a big week ahead...

***

 

_April 4th_

There was a place to eat in Custer where Steve could get a buffalo burger—though he almost didn’t because of how intriguing he’d found the animals.  But the waiter said the meat came from bison raised for the butcher, not wild bison.  So he gave it a try.

It tasted so good he decided he’d find a place that served buffalo burgers when he went back to New York.  He was sure it would feel pricy and pretentious to him, like so many places these days did; but it’d be worth putting up with a lot for a burger even half as good.

He was eager to call Hansen, but he didn’t want to do it standing on the sidewalk of Custer, South Dakota; so he got on his bike and rode back to the lodge first.  Marilyn’s face fell when he turned down dessert; but he’d already been waiting to make this phone call, and he didn’t want to wait any longer.

“I have a call to make,” he explained.  “Let me take care of that, and I’ll be right down.”

“All right, then,” Marilyn said, mollified.  “It’s not every day you taste a chocolate bread pudding like mine, you know!”

“I’ll put on a pot of decaf,” Art added.

Steve thanked them and headed to his room.  He dialed Hansen’s number, but he didn’t press call right away.

What was he going to do if Hansen didn’t take his call?  He knew a couple of restaurants and a bar Hansen liked, the church he went to when he went to church—which seemed like wasn’t often, and he had a vague idea what neighborhood he lived in.  He didn’t even know his last name.  He had no idea how to find the man.

But it hardly mattered, did it?  He wasn’t going to force his company on a guy who didn’t want to see him again.

Seemed like that was a lot of guys lately who didn’t want anything to do with him.  Two—but they were some important guys to him.  Besides his mother, Bucky had always been the most important person in his life; and Hansen—Steve’d fallen pretty hard considering he hadn’t known the guy more than a month.  

It felt like a lot.  It was sort of hard not to wonder what it was about him that drove people away.

Steve shook his head and pressed call before he talked himself into a worse mood.  Or out of calling, for that matter.

No answer.  Steve didn’t leave another message.  He’d left one that morning.  He wasn’t going to pester him.  He’d call again tomorrow evening, and if Hansen didn’t answer his phone or return Steve’s call, maybe he should let it rest for a bit.  He wasn’t ready to give up just yet, but he could give Hansen a little space.

He sat on the bed for a minute before dialing Sam’s number.

“Cap!” Sam said.  “Good to hear from you—you back from your tropical island?”

“Not quite,” Steve said.  “I’ve moved, but I’m not heading home yet.  Turns out there’s a lot I haven’t seen.”

“Okay,” Sam said.  He paused, and his voice was serious when he spoke again.  “It still helping?”

“I think so,” Steve replied.  “There’ve been ups and downs.  But yeah, I think it’s helping.”

He and Sam talked a little about Sam’s work before they hung up.  What Sam did—he was as much a hero as any of the Avengers, and he helped as many people; it was less visible than what Captain America did, that’s all.

He wished he could talk to Sam about all of this.  Sam was a smart guy and a good friend, and he knew how to listen.  But the words wouldn’t leave his throat.  He was too afraid it would change the way his friend felt about him if he knew.  Maybe some day he’d be brave enough, but not yet.

The next day, Steve set out to Badlands National Park before the sun rose.  Among other things, Hansen was right about Steve being a city boy.  He was trying to remedy that, though—he was falling in love with this wide, wild landscape—as drawn to it as he had been to Hansen.  It was almost unbelievable to him that people had lived here for thousands of years, and in some places a guy could go for miles without seeing a single trace of humanity’s presence.

He didn’t have much of an idea what he was doing, though.  He was grateful for Art’s advice.  While encouraging Steve to come back during the summer months, he inadvertently convinced Steve to take a twenty-two mile hike through the Badlands Wilderness Area.  It was supposed to take three days.

But twenty-two miles wasn’t that far.  If he only covered two miles an hour, the whole thing would take eleven hours.  He didn’t want to go too fast to take it in, but two miles an hour was a nice, easy pace.  So Steve didn’t plan to take three days to do it, and Art didn’t need to know more of his plans than ‘hike some in Badlands.’  If he was at the trailhead at sunrise, he’d be done by sunset; and he’d have a great day, just him and the wild land.

Art had enough stories to tell about would-be hikers who hadn’t brought enough water for their trek that Steve was prepared for that.  He bought a lot of water as he passed through town.  A _lot_ of water.  He had to empty his backpack to carry it all—but it was what Art had recommended; and there was a part of him suggesting that this was a little reckless, so he’d better prepare as best he could.

Hansen had said, “ _riding from here to Mount Rushmore, alone, in March—It’s reckless or stupid or both._ ”  Hiking into the Badlands Wilderness Area at the tail end of winter, all alone, following the trail using only the directions he’d snagged when Art wasn’t looking, in a location notorious for its poor cell phone service…  He didn’t know where this would fit on Hansen’s “sky diving to BASE jumping” scale, but he thought it probably ranked at least as high as running the bulls.

Maybe he’d get a chance to find out, if Hansen was ever willing to hear Steve’s voice again.

There wasn’t anyone at the Conata Picnic Area when he arrived, but he hadn’t expected he’d have company at 7:00 a.m.   The air was crisp and cold and the light pale as he began his trek through what the directions described as “knee high” grass.  The winter seemed to have been tough on it—little of the pale gold grass stood tall through the snow.  But his way seemed pretty clear, so he followed along the the rock formation; and about two miles in he came to a gate set in a barbed wire fence, just like the directions said he would.  The thin crust of ice over the snow crunched satisfyingly under his feet.  So far, so good. 

He encountered his first problem about 4 1/2 miles in.  The Sage Creek Basin was described as a “3.5 mile-wide-grassland veined with gullies.”  Just like the first two miles of the hike, the grass on the plain was pretty beaten down by winter.  It was pretty, though; the sun properly up now, the snow glittered in its reflected light.  The sky was that same clear, bright blue it had been yesterday.  Hansen had said it snowed a fair bit in March and April, so it must not be so clear all the time.  Steve was glad he’d caught a sunny day for this.

It was great.  Steve was new to this sort of thing, but he loved it; and as long as you knew where you were going, it was pretty easy.

He shouldn’t have gotten cocky.

Steve had pictured a gully as a sort of ditch that he might occasionally have to step across to cross the Basin.  And they were ditches, in a way…

Only they were a little bigger than what Steve thought of when he thought of a ditch.

Turned out that a gully was easily twelve or fifteen feet wide and just as deep.  And that was the small ones.  Steve would not have called these gullies.  Valleys, ravines, small canyons…sure.  Any of those would have worked.

If Steve hadn’t been who he was, he would have had to turn around and backtrack countless times.  And sometimes if the gully was wider than most or the place he’d have to land on the other side seemed tricky, he’d go back and find another way around just like any other hiker would have to.

But mostly he jumped them.

It was pretty fun, actually; and Steve’s confidence returned.  But it slowed him down some.  

That was okay, though; it was still pretty early in the morning when he got to the Sage Creek Basin.  He had daylight to spare.  He stopped for lunch where the directions had suggested stopping on the second day, by a small pond about the eight mile mark; and maybe it was a little late for lunch.  But if he picked up the pace a bit in the afternoon, he’d be fine.  He took the next three or four miles at a fast walk, so he made up a little time that way.

Steve was just about halfway through the hike when he got to the place the directions said he had to “navigate south-southeast through a maze of drainages.”

Steve had his lucky compass, so it wasn’t the “south-southeast” part that was the problem.  That he could do.

The problem was:  “maze” was the perfect word to describe the area.  But “drainages?”  Steve had pictured the drainages as about the size the gullies turned out to be, and they were about as much bigger than that as the gullies had been bigger than the way Steve had imagined _them_.

He couldn’t jump them the way he had the gullies.  If he picked the wrong turn in the maze, he had to go back and try another way; and he picked the wrong way more than once.  Sometimes he could go through the drainage—down into it and up the other side—but once he was in the drainage, he couldn’t see the lay of the land.  He ended up having to backtrack because he’d made the wrong choice when he was down in a drainage more than once.

And climbing up and down?  That slowed him down a lot _._

He could cover the distance easily if he ran.  But as fast as he could run, he couldn’t run this.  He didn’t know where he was going well enough, and the terrain under the snow was so uneven and so unpredictable that he’d break something if he tried.  “Bad lands to travel”—wasn’t that the truth.

When the sun set around 7:30 p.m., Steve still had about seven miles of trail to cover.  He tried to call Art and Marilyn to let them know he’d be late, but he didn’t have service.  He hoped they didn’t worry too much.

As the day drew to a close, the moon became visible, big and full in the twilight sky.  It looked odd to Steve.

Maybe it was because he’d never seen a full moon under such a clear sky, without the light pollution of a city around him, but it seemed reddish instead of white; and the red color only deepened as the sky grew darker.  Steve was at a part of the trail where he had to follow a fence line for a while, and it was bright enough for him to do that as long as he was careful.

Steve finally realized it was a lunar eclipse.  He’d thought it was a combination of foolhardiness and bad luck that had put him out in the cold South Dakota night with only the barest idea where he was going, and maybe it was.  But it felt more like a lucky chance, or maybe a gift.  Either way he was glad he was there to see it.

It sure was a strange gift, though.

It was eerie.  The empty land, with its rough, rocky landscape; and a big red moon in the sky…  Yeah, eerie was the word for it, all right.  It was getting colder again.  And the several hours trailing the fence line cautiously under the red moon—it was like South Dakota had decided to show him what wild meant.  It wasn’t all what a guy might think:  stampedes and rushing flood waters and skittish animals.  It was that this place, on this planet that was his home, was completely alien.  He had thought he was a part of it, but he wasn’t; and the land was far bigger and more powerful than he was.  It was incomprehensible and unconquerable, and this day he had had—this day had been a gift of mercy to him.  If the Badlands had wanted to, they could have swallowed him up that day and no one would ever have known what happened to him.

Steve shivered, and not just from the bitter cold.  They still could.  The moon had been steadily creeping towards the horizon, and the night had grown too dim for him to continue moving.  He sat down with his back to a fencepost and watched the red moon slip away.

This wasn’t the moon abandoning him, though; it was another gift.  As the moon set, the previously unassuming stars claimed the night sky until it glittered beyond anything Steve had imagined.  Even during the war, when they were on a mission that kept them out overnight, the stars had never been like this.  Seeing them shine like they did—how was he supposed to go back to a city once he’d seen this, knowing he’d never see the faintest hint of what they were as long as he was surrounded by the city’s lights?

Shaking from the cold, he leaned against the fencepost and watched the stars until the light of the false dawn stole them away.  When he could see well enough, he stood and continued on his way.  He was back at the Conata Picnic Area by eight in the morning.  He tried Art and Marilyn, but he still didn’t have any phone service; so he rode the ten miles or so to the closest town and called from there.

Marilyn was relieved to hear from him and not a little upset, and he took his medicine without complaint before finding a place to eat breakfast.  He’d planned for lunch out on the trail yesterday, but not dinner; and he was pretty hungry.

He wasn’t thirsty, though.  He’d had plenty of water.  His mouth twitched in half a smile.  It was about the only way he’d been adequately prepared for the previous day’s hike.

Steve found a diner on Main Street in Wall, South Dakota.  Some of these little towns showed the wear and neglect as the passing years had left them behind, but Wall was one of those that seemed like a step back into the past.  A waitress waved him over to a booth, and he walked over and sat down.  He ordered a cup of coffee and looked over the menu, and then he took a deep breath and set it aside to check his phone.  

Hansen hadn’t called.  Steve sighed and rubbed his face.  He set it down and looked at the menu again.  Idly he noticed that it had the address printed on the back of it, and under that, the url of their website and an email address.  Seemed like despite his first impression, Wall, South Dakota had changed just like everyplace else.  Sometimes he just didn’t get it.  Why would a small town diner need a website and an email account?  He guessed some folks must prefer to communicate that way rather than picking up the phone and having to talk to a real live person, but he didn’t know why.  He’d choose the phone rather than email.

Though sometimes writing things down helped.  He’d learned that during the war.  It could make the tough things easier to say.

He paused, and he picked up his phone again and logged into his email account.

Hansen had sent him an email—yesterday, it looked like.

Steve didn’t know if that was a bad sign or a good sign.  Could be either.  But if Hansen had taken the time to do that instead of ignoring his calls or calling back just to say “forget you, jerk, and stop calling me,” that had to be good, right?

Though maybe that’s all this email was, and Hansen was so mad he hadn’t wanted to hear the sound of Steve’s voice.

He was working himself into a state.  He took a deep breath and opened the email.

 

_You probably figured out I’ve been ducking your calls for the past couple days.  I’m sorry.  Usually I like to confront things head on, and I suspect you do too.  But this is not the sort of thing you find out about someone you’re interested in every day, and it took me a while to wrap my mind around that._

_I just—the guy I thought I was getting to know, that sweet, funny, gorgeous guy that was driving every other thought out of my head—finding out that guy was_ _Captain America_ _?  I didn’t know what to say to that.  I still don’t.  It’s like the guy I liked got erased, and I’m left wondering how much of that guy existed in the first place and how much was my wishful thinking._

_I can’t really blame you for not telling me.  We haven’t known each other all that long.  But I keep thinking over conversations we had, and I realize that something you said has this Captain America weight behind it, and I think “he could’ve told me then.”_

_Like—“a few years ago you had a big change in your life”?  Maybe that’s not a lie, but it’s a hell of an understatement.  I’m having some trouble getting past that kind of thing—and every hour I think of something else.  You are the king of the ambiguous double-meaning, did you know that?  “Work makes things complicated.”  Yeah, I bet it does.  Shit.  And your “great lady,” who had “moved on by the time you were back”?  Because it’s war; it happens?”  What happened to you isn’t quite the same as your significant other meeting someone else during your six month deployment—and you have to know that’s what I thought you meant._

_So I feel stupid as hell for not asking more questions—who the hell doesn’t know how old he is?  Did I think you didn’t know when you were born for some reason?  Raised by wolves, maybe?  Or maybe you were really bad at addition and subtraction?_

_Or the way you talked about your Army career—maybe in your day that was the way commando teams were put together, but you’d never be leading a team without Special Forces training these days.  And not following up with the way you ducked my question about what kind of law enforcement—that was so fucking dumb._

_I know I was blinded by the—damn, by the whole package; you have got to know how gorgeous you are.  I admit that’s what caught my attention in the first place.  And then—behind that face and that body, an interesting guy with a brain and a sense of humor, so fucking sweet he blushes…_

_It’s not about you being in the closet.  That was a cheap shot, and I owe you another apology for that.  Considering the time you came from and the way you were raised and how late you’re realizing this about yourself—and of course who you are—it’s ridiculous to expect anything else.  And being who you are—you’re right to think that it’s going to be a “colossal mess” if you decide to come out.  That’s not something you should do lightly, and I’ve got no right to put pressure on you about it.  Nobody does—I don’t care who they are.  Because there will be some damn big consequences and you’re the only one who knows how ready you are for that._

_It’s been a long time since I’ve dated anyone who was still in the closet; and I swore I wouldn’t do it again, but for that guy I couldn’t get out of my head—_

_Shit.  I don’t even know what to call you.  I’m not going to call you Captain Rogers; but “Steve” feels too familiar, and “Brooklyn” feels like a lie._

_Ah, fuck.  What I’d give for that guy to be real._

_The shitty part of it is—I know he is.  I’m still pissed about the way you circumvented the truth.  It’d be easier for me if it was all a lie.  And it’s not the Captain America reputation that makes me think it wasn’t.  The face you made when you said “law enforcement”?  You can’t lie worth a damn.  So that sweet, funny, smart guy; that guy I wanted to kiss until his eyes weren’t sad anymore—that guy’s real._

_But I can’t for the life of me put him together in my head with Captain America._

_We didn’t have enough time together for this to be a break up.  It’s a might-have-been, I guess.  And—damn it.  There’s this part of me screaming that I’m crazy for walking away, and I suspect I’m going to wish I’d kissed you just once for the rest of my life._

_And there’s a part of me that’s worried about the guy who didn’t hope for happiness—he just wanted to not be unhappy.  That’s another part I can’t put together with Captain America—How is Captain America not happy?  Not hopeful?  It’s—throw in patriotic, handsome, brave, self-sacrificing, determined, truthful—that’s the definition of Captain America._

_I want you to be happy, Brooklyn.  I wish I could be the guy to give you that.  I’m already jealous of whoever that lucky s.o.b. is going to be._

_Hansen_

 

Ah, that was just…  Steve turned off his phone and pretended to look out the window while he drank his coffee.  It wasn’t hot enough, but mostly he needed something to distract him so he didn’t break the table.  It took a lot of concentration to keep from crushing the mug, and a lot of staring to keep the tears from falling.

***

Breakfast in Wall, South Dakota, left a lot to be desired—not only too cool coffee, but tough eggs, burnt bacon, and dry pancakes, too.  Steve barely tasted it anyway.  He ate his fill and he didn’t linger.  It was about 9:00 a.m. when he walked out of the diner.  He put his hands in his pockets and walked a few blocks down Main Street before stopping.  As he did he noticed the sign in front of a church a few blocks down the cross street.  

_He is Risen Indeed!_

He’d been so preoccupied, he’d forgotten it was Easter Sunday.  It felt like a good sign—a gift, like the red moonlight over the Badlands, or the brilliance of the stars that followed.  It was a new beginning.  

A chance to try again.

He bit his lip and pulled out his phone.  His gut churned as he dialed Hansen’s number.  But Hansen hadn’t said not to call.  And—he liked Hansen, and the things Hansen had said about him—Hansen still liked him.  He still wanted him.  If he would just give Steve another chance, now that he knew…  

But instead of ringing or voicemail, he got:  _the number you were trying to reach has calling restrictions which prevent your call from being completed at this time_.  He had to think about that a minute.  What did it mean:  “the number you were trying to reach has calling restrictions which prevent your call from being completed at this time?”

Oh.

He ended the call and stuck his phone back in his pocket and crossed his arms tight across his body.  Guess that was that, then.

Soon as he could control his voice, he called Art and Marilyn to let them know he wasn’t going to be headed back to the lodge that evening.  He’d had a great time, and they should keep what he’d already paid for the room.  Then he walked back to his bike, started the motor and pulled out onto the road.  Once he got going, his eyes watered a little from the wind; but they dried eventually.  It was a decent ride to Yellowstone, and he couldn’t cry the whole blessed way.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Badlands National Park](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/93215211718/salviag-yall-i-could-post-photos-of-the)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> and [a "blood moon"](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/93215751378/there-will-in-fact-be-a-lunar-eclipse-visible-in).


	18. Not a Bad Way to Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Suicide Attempt. If this will be difficult for you to read, then skip this chapter, okay? Take care of yourself and we'll see you next week.

***

 

_April 5th_

Steve arrived at Yellowstone mid-afternoon.  He was annoyed to learn that none of the park lodging was open in April.  Tony had said that Natasha and Clint hadn’t known where to go after Rushmore.  That had to be why.  If they called ahead like he should have, they would have easily learned what he didn’t know until he was there.

If he wanted to cover his tracks better next time—if there were a next time—he was going to have to learn how to erase his electronic tracks properly.  Natasha couldn’t have known where he was headed unless she’d been able to pull the information off his computer.  Not even Sam knew.  Only his unplanned detour to the North Woods had allowed him to elude her and Clint, and that was down to Hansen’s influence.  But maybe now that he’d gone off his itinerary once, they wouldn’t expect him to follow the rest of it.  At the least, they couldn’t know when he’d be where.

And maybe he’d take another detour.  Stay some places a little longer.  Hansen had been right about the solitary peace and beauty of the North Woods giving Steve some time to heal.  These past few days in South Dakota had been a gift, too.  They’d been a balm to the hurt he felt when Hansen learned who he was and walked away.

He sat down on a bench just outside the Visitor Center.  It had hurt a lot.  More than he would have expected.  He hadn’t known Hansen that long.  Maybe it was gaining a little peace?  A little hope, and some acceptance of who he was?  Maybe it was because Hansen seemed to get him.  And he’d really liked the guy.  Whatever the reason, it hurt.

And losing that connection with Hansen…it felt like all of that—peace, hope, and acceptance—had been snatched away as well.  It brought all his fear and confusion and pain back.

He was just so lonely.  Seemed like no one had gotten Steve in a long time.  Only Sam.  And Sam was a good friend, but it wasn’t the same.

He was grateful for what the Badlands had given him.  It was only—the moon and stars and that alien landscape touched his soul; but if this trip had taught him anything, it was that he needed someone to share it with, too.

It was fine to say that he was going to anchor his life to the idea of America, to its ideals and its people and its land.  And it wasn’t that those things weren’t valuable.  But making a connection with Hansen, and then losing it the way he had—  those things had a feeble warmth compared to one person whose spirit could touch his.

His hurt over Bucky’s rejection had roared back to life, too.  Right now he wanted to be able to lean on his friend’s shoulder, and that was never going to happen again.

Bucky might not have been so accepting of a queer relationship.  He and Steve had never talked about it.  But if this had happened in the years of their friendship, before Bucky’s fall—he would have been there for Steve when he was hurting, even if he didn’t approve.

He scrubbed his face.  He didn’t even have Bucky’s telephone number.  Bucky had never given it to him, nor had he ever called Steve.  In retrospect, it was a pretty big hint.  _Fucking Boy Scout.  I don’t want him in my life._

He couldn’t talk to Natasha about this kind of thing.  He just couldn’t.  And he didn’t know what Sam thought about queers any more than he knew what Bucky thought.  He was worried he’d lose his friend over it.  All he knew was, he’d better talk to somebody.  So he called Sam.

“Hey, Cap,” Sam said when he answered.  “I wasn’t sure if you’d heard wherever you are.  I’m sorry for your loss.”

Steve was quiet for a few seconds while he took that in.

“What loss?” he asked.

“Ah, hell,” Sam said.  “I guess you hadn’t heard.”  He sighed.  When he continued, his voice was too kind to bear.  “Peggy Carter died yesterday.”

Steve stared at the scrubby hill beyond the Albright Visitor Center parking lot.  He felt frozen—cold and still, like all the warmth in his world had disappeared.  He saw the ice coming at him, forming around him, and he couldn’t do anything to stop it.  He realized he was holding his breath and made himself inhale.  It felt like runoff from a spring thaw in his lungs.  Crueler for its sudden sharpness.

“Yeah?” he asked when he could speak again.  “Was it…”

“In her sleep, I think,” Sam said.  “Peaceful as can be.”

“Okay,” Steve said.  “Thanks.  I guess it was time.”  He swallowed hard.  “Don’t think I was ready, though.”

“I don’t know if we ever are,” Sam said.  “I’ve got to go; I’ve got a group coming in.  I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“You’re a good friend, Sam,” Steve said.  “The best.”

“Cap?” Sam’s voice sounded worried.  “You going to be okay?”

“Sure,” Steve said.  “Always am.”  He hung up before Sam could press him further and studied the trail map he’d picked up just ten minutes ago.

Well, it wasn’t the ice; but it would probably do the trick.  And ice might not be as welcoming as he thought.  He sure hadn’t expected how much it hurt.

Bucky hated him.  Hansen wouldn’t speak to him.  Peggy was dead.  

He’d lost everyone he’d loved.  He’d lost even a chance for a new love.

He was so tired.  He was tired of struggling and fighting and never…

Maybe the moon and the stars and the Badlands…

It had been a gift.  It had been a cold, magical night; and it had brought a little beauty to his life before he was left all alone.  He wondered if it had been a blessing from Peggy.  It would be just like her, in her first act as an angel:  to give him something to try to make up for leaving him behind.

He was grateful, but…

He was so tired.  Tired and frozen and nearly falling, and nothing to hold onto against gravity’s pull.  Nothing to do but let go all the way.

He headed to his bike and took off south, further into the park.  He blew past the sign that said the road was closed until mid-April.  It was April 5th.  Mid-April wasn’t too far away.  He suspected he’d get through just fine.

The Pelican Valley trailhead was just a few miles from the Fishing Bridge Visitor Center and Lake Village.  The whole Lake Village-Fishing Bridge developed area was still shut down in April, but Steve knew where he was going.  He drove right through. 

He parked his bike and sat there a few minutes, while he thought about calling Natasha or another of the Avengers.  In the end he decided not to.  It’d be easier for them to learn about it later—after.  Instead he pulled out his sketchpad and labelled some of the drawings, one or two for each of them, depending on what he thought they’d like.  He wrote Sam’s name on the back of a couple more.  And after staring at it a long time, he wrote Bucky’s name on the drawing he’d done of Minnehaha Falls.  It was from memory, but Steve had a pretty good memory.  He thought it was a decent rendering.

He thought about leaving a drawing for Hansen, but he didn’t know how to get it to him.  An architect, lives in Minneapolis, first name Hansen, last name unknown.  Didn’t seem like enough to find him.  So he left it.  He wasn’t sure he wanted Hansen to know, anyway.  Didn’t know how it could be kept quiet, but he hoped the Avengers would try.  Captain America going down would be an opportunity some would want to take advantage of, if they knew.

And he wanted the Steve in Hansen’s mind to be a happy memory, as much as it could be under the shadow of Captain America.  A might-have-been.  A kiss that never happened rather than an ending.

On the first blank page of his sketch pad, he wrote  _Sometimes you know it’s time.  S_.  He unhooked the backpack from his shield and hung it on the seat of his bike, slung his shield back on, and turned toward the trailhead.  He’d barely made it fifty feet when a Park Service vehicle came tearing into the parking lot.

“Sir!” the ranger called.  “This area of the park is closed this time of year!  You need to follow me back out.”

Steve turned to look at him, but he kept walking.

“Make me, son,” he said.

The ranger looked stunned for a moment, and then angry.  He leapt out of the vehicle and stalked after Steve.

“Sir, this is a national park; and since the National Park Service is a division of the Department of the Interior, that makes me a federal law enforcement officer,” he said.  “This area of the park is closed this time of year, and that trail you’re headed to is closed until the first of July.  Keep walking and you are headed for more trouble than you want.”

Steve shrugged, reached over his shoulder and brought his shield around and onto his arm.  The ranger’s eyes widened.

“Like I said,” Steve told him.  “Make me.”  He turned and started jogging down the trail.

“Sir!” the ranger called after him.  He was starting to sound a little panicked.  “Captain!  This trail is closed because it’s grizzly territory!”

“Yeah, that’s what I read,” Steve called over his shoulder.

“Captain!” the ranger called.  “Captain!  Ah, shit.”  As Steve rounded the first bend in the trail, he could hear him talking into a walkie-talkie.  “We have a situation at the Pelican Valley trailhead,” he was saying.  “I need backup—everyone who can drop what they’re doing and make it here ASAP.  With bear spray.”

Steve smiled grimly and picked up the pace.  How long can a grizzly maintain a thirty mile per hour pace, he wondered.  He guessed he’d see.

The trail into Pelican Valley was beautiful.  Despite the places snow hadn’t quite melted away, the valley was starting to get a green haze of spring here and there; and the air was cool and soft and moist like the trail beneath his feet.  Steve hadn’t slept at all the night before, and he’d been on his bike for most of the day.  It felt good to get into the rhythm of a run, to challenge what his body could do.  He couldn’t quite seem to reach that mindless state where all there was was the run, though.  His mind kept turning and spinning.  Peggy was gone.  Peggy gone, and he hadn’t been by her side to hold her hand or kiss her cheek one last time.  He hoped her kids and grandkids had been there.  He hoped it was as peaceful as Sam had said it was.

Peggy, gone.  Bucky— _his_ Bucky, gone, with only a hostile doppleganger left behind.  Hansen, turning and walking away, gone before Steve’d had more than a glimpse of what might be.

The Pelican Valley trail was a lollipop, and he ran the loop portion of it five times before he saw a grizzly.  He wasn’t sure how to tell if it was male or female other than the size or if it had cubs with it.  His best guess was this one weighed somewhere between 400 and 450 pounds.  Could be either.  It was foraging in a wide expanse of meadow, about 200 feet away when he came into view.  The trail’s direction veered away from the bear, but he would have to pass by it first.  As Steve came down the trail, the grizzly stood up on its back paws; and—yeah.  It was a lot more intimidating standing.  Steve sped up.  The bear watched as he approached; and as Steve went by, it dropped to all four legs and started to chase him.  Steve checked over his shoulder.  Yep.  About thirty miles an hour and closing on him.  Maybe a little over thirty miles an hour.  Steve picked up the pace again.  He was beginning to think it would be safer if he’d worn his shield on his back instead of his arm.  He could imagine the damage one swipe of those huge paws could do to his unprotected back.

Safe wasn’t exactly the plan.  Steve just didn’t like the idea of going down running away instead of facing his attacker, even if his attacker was a grizzly bear, just doing what came naturally to one of God’s creatures.  But he wasn’t quite ready to stand and fight, so he ran.

  The trail was mostly flat, without a lot of change in elevation; but there was some up and down to it, and there was plenty of mud from the spring melt.  That was what brought Steve down.  They were descending a slight slope when the trail took a turn to the left.  Steve hit the bottom of the slope at speed, pivoted to follow the turn, and couldn’t get any traction in the mud.  He slid right off the path into the scrub, and before he could shake it off and get moving again, the bear was on him.

The grizzly’s claws were long and wicked, but they weren’t as dangerous as its jaws.  As the bear came down on him he swung his shield in between them, and its teeth closed on its edge with a screech of teeth on metal.  That bite was something else.  The bear jerked its head to the right a few times to try to pry the shield off Steve, and it was all Steve could do to hold his arm close enough to his body to protect his abdomen.  He couldn’t break free.  And he couldn’t bring it up to protect his other side, so when the bear’s claws came down, they slashed across his shoulder and upper arm.  His only protection was a leather jacket over a cotton shirt.  Both ripped right away, and the bear’s claws tore into his skin.  It wasn’t like a gun shot, that took a moment before it burned.  This hurt right away. 

But Steve didn’t intend to go down at the first hit.  He slipped a bit in the mud, but he managed to push his shoulders against the soft ground for leverage, got his feet flat against the earth, and used the momentum of the bear’s next head shake to flip them over and around so the bear was on its back.  Steve’s shield slipped out from between its teeth, and he was on his feet.  He stumbled back a few steps before turning to run.

He’d thought the bear might roar.  It didn’t; but he could hear the shrubs cracking as it rolled over, and he could feel the ground vibrate as it surged to his feet.  Yeah.  If he couldn’t have that icy blue peace, then fierce and wild wasn’t a bad way to go.  Better than resignation.  Better than limping on day after lonely day.

He was off the trail now, with no idea of the terrain up ahead, beyond the edge of the low hill.  His feet sunk and slipped on the wet ground, and only the grasses’ thick turf of roots kept him upright.  The bear wasn’t far behind him and was keeping up at this pace, but Steve wasn’t running all out.  Barring another fall, he’d be able to outrun it.  And he was determined to stay on his feet.  Maybe this was what he’d come to find, but he wasn’t going down until he’d fought to the last.

He remembered seeing _Warrior with Shield_ at the Minneapolis Institute of Art.  That lonely, stubborn figure— forced to sit rather than stand to face its opponent because its left leg and arm were torn away.  The shield on its right arm, held up to protect its torso, the right leg useless without its partner—almost limp against the pedestal supporting the figure.  

There was no shame in losing a battle that couldn’t be won, was there?  Not when he’d fought with everything in him.

The next time he went down, it was because he caught his foot on a downed tree hidden behind a shrub as he leapt over it.  They were approaching a forested area at the edge of the valley, and the shadows were growing longer with the coming dusk.  He rolled back to his feet and was moving again, but the fall gave the grizzly enough time to catch up to him.  It bowled him over with one swipe from a huge paw.  Steve rolled and came up again, but he’d twisted his ankle when he went over the tree trunk.  It wasn’t broken, but he wasn’t going to be able to run full out on it.  It would slow him down enough for the bear to take him.  He spun and faced it, and for the first time he considered attack.  

It felt wrong, though.  He was already misusing this animal.  It wasn’t what anyone would call defenseless; but it was innocent.  He couldn’t blame a predator for being what it was.  Steve couldn’t bring himself to throw his shield.

As it rushed him, the grizzly reared up to grasp at his shoulders and catch his head between its massive jaws.  Steve ducked his head and got the shield up; but his ankle protested as it took the weight of the bear in addition to his own, and the bear’s claws pierced both his shoulders this time.  He went down, rolled away, and got up to face the bear again.  Much more of that and his ankle wasn’t going to hold any weight at all.  He and the grizzly were both breathing hard, their panting gasps the only sound in the valley.

The bear rushed him, and Steve ducked and pivoted to avoid the blow of its paw; but he wobbled on his bad ankle, and the bear wheeled and closed its jaws on his injured shoulder, clamping all the way down to the bone and shaking him off his feet.  Steve couldn’t hold back a groan, and the bear bore him down to the ground.

If the bear had caught his head in those powerful jaws, he would have been dead in less than a minute.  But its instinct was to go for the unprotected belly, so it went for his abdomen—and Steve’s shield arm was trapped between them.  The bear’s teeth screeched across the vibranium.  The grizzly lifted its paw to pry the shield off him, and Steve took advantage of that to bend his knees and wedge his feet against the bear’s side.  With some effort he kicked it away.  His left ankle gave with a crack.  He wasn’t getting up on that foot again.  

He wasn’t done, though.  He scrabbled in the dirt so he could push up on his elbows.   He was going to do this facing what was coming.  This time when it came at him, all he could do was curl up with his one good leg ready to hold it off best he could and cover his vulnerable midsection with his shield.  The bear pinned him again, and it was smart—this time it used its jaws to pry at the shield instead of its paw.  Steve yelled as the bear pulled his arm away from his body and got its nose on the inside of the shield.  He struggled to escape, but he was done and he knew it.  Without the shield to protect him, the grizzly would get its jaws on his abdomen, and that would be it.

He was worried that the church would consider this suicide.  He hoped the fact that he fought would weigh in his favor.  But he’d known he risked his soul as well as his life, and he’d decided to take the chance.  He was alone in a world he couldn’t seem to connect to.  He should have died in 1945.  It was long past time.

The bear’s jaws opened.  It lowered its head—

It bellowed as a repulsor blast hit it in the side, bowling it over and propelling it a hundred feet across the meadow.  It shook its head and got to its feet, turning back towards Steve; and another repulsor hit it in the chest, forcing it away again.  It took two more blasts before the bear gave up and took off towards the trees at a lope.

“Cap, I thought it was understood that you were the staid responsible one; and I got to be the crazy reckless one,” Iron Man said as he lowered himself to the ground.

“I thought you were done with the suit,” Steve replied.  Panting, he lay on his back where the bear had brought him down.  He’d sit up in a minute.

“So I like to tinker,” Tony said.  “And then I get this call from you; only instead of you it’s a nearly incoherent park ranger, babbling about how can they stop Captain America from committing suicide by grizzly bear.  They _really_ don’t like that, Cap.  Ranger Rick was veering between completely panicked and totally pissed off.”  Tony paused.  “This is a different look for you.  Very Terminator.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Steve said.

“Of course you don’t,” Tony said.  “Let’s go let the nice park rangers read you the riot act while I film it for posterity, hmm?  I’ll give you a ride since you seem to have done a number on that ankle.”

Steve took a deep breath and rolled onto his less injured left side.

“Okay,” he said.  “I can get up.”  

Turned out he couldn’t.  The problem wasn’t his broken ankle; it was dizziness brought on by blood loss.

“Ah—“ Tony bit back whatever he was going to say next.  “You son of a bitch.  Always have to have the last word.  Get ready.  It’s going to be a fast ride.”  His arms were gentle as he lifted Steve.  “JARVIS, let the rangers know Cap’s alive but injured, so we’re going straight to Jackson; and call the hospital there so they know we’re coming.  And that if the slightest whiff of this gets out, I’m going to personally sue the asses off the hospital and every single one of its employees, and maybe every inhabitant of Jackson, Wyoming to boot.”  He pushed off into the air, and Steve’s eyelids fluttered closed against the wind shear.  He heard an anxious, “Hey—stay with me, Cap!” as he blacked out.  He didn’t remember the rest of the trip.

 


	19. The Riot Act

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of Steve's suicide attempt, Tony has a few things to say to him.

***

 

_April 6th_

When he woke, Steve wasn’t sure where he was; but it felt like a hospital.  For a moment, he wondered if he’d lost another seventy years.  This didn’t have the surreal quality of the recovery room he’d woken in after his long sleep, though.  And seconds after his eyes fluttered open, someone punched his shoulder.  He blinked and turned to look.

Tony Stark sat next to his bed, a Starkpad in his hand.  He looked as mad as Steve had ever seen him.

“Not okay, Cap,” he said.  “You were supposed to be on vacation.  Hopefully fishing and hooking up with hot babes in bikinis; but worst case, you actually were thinking about whether or not the Avengers should continue to be a Stark Corporation charity case—which, by the way,  you left me in charge; and I say the answer is yes.  Discussion over.  In no way, shape, or form were grizzly bears involved in any of these scenarios.”

Steve closed his eyes and grimaced.  It hadn’t been one of his better decisions.  That didn’t mean he was going to talk about his problems with Tony Stark.

“You said the parts of the country between Malibu and Manhattan didn’t count,” he said.

“I made an exception,” Tony said.  “I am so pissed with you, Cap.  I am seriously pissed.”

“Sorry if you had plans,” Steve said.  “But don’t blame me.  I didn’t ask you to come.”

“Don’t start with me,” Tony said.  “The only reason I didn’t tell everyone was because I’m pretty sure you would resign from the Avengers and crawl into a hole if everybody knew about this, and I don’t want to be the leader all the time.  I’ve done it and I’ve decided it’s boring and a pain in the ass.  So I am sparing you the embarrassment of having to explain yourself to everyone, but you are explaining to me.  _What were you thinking_?”

“You wouldn’t blink if it were Thor,” Steve said.

“That’s because crazy dangerous deadly predator wrestling is in the Thunder God job description,” Tony said.  “And Thor wouldn’t touch an animal on the Endangered Species List.”

Steve winced.

“Didn’t know that, huh?” Tony asked.  “Maybe you want to ask next time you decide to go call of the wild on us.”

“I was being stupid,” Steve said.  “It won’t happen again.”

“You’re right about that,” Tony said.  “Because you’re coming back to New York with me and you’re grounded until further notice, old man.  This is completely unacceptable behavior.  And stop trying to change the subject!  What the hell, Cap?”

“I’m not going back to New York,” Steve said.  “Not yet.  I’m not done.”

“Oh, yes you are,” Tony said.  “Listen to me.  You see what you’ve done?  You’ve turned me into the strict parent.”

“You think you can make me go back, you’re welcome to try,” Steve said.

“Oh please,” Tony said.  “You can’t even stand without a crutch.”

“I’m not ready, Tony,” Steve said.  “I’m not, okay?  I just.  I’m sorry.  I’m not going to do anything stupid.  Just give me some time to get my head straight.”

Tony stared at him for a long time.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he said at last.  “I’m going to call Pepper.”  He waited for Steve’s nod before he left.

After Tony left, Steve closed his eyes and tried to forget that he had just received a well-deserved dressing down from Tony Stark.  _Tony Stark_ , king of reckless, irresponsible behavior.

The past six months, waiting for Bucky to recover, constantly being rebuffed by him—it had been hard for Steve.  Then when he tried to retreat so he could get used to the idea that Bucky hated him— _Barnes_ ; it was _Barnes_ who hated him.  Bucky had been his friend.  He had pulled away to patch up his struggling heart, and he had met Hansen.  And Hansen had pushed him and confused him and thrilled him.  Hansen had made him think and laugh and want.  Part of Steve had been dying since Bucky turned him away.  Part of him hadn’t survived waking up in the future, separated from everyone and everything that he knew.  Hansen had woke that—brought some joy and anticipation into his life.  And then he’d lost it before it came to fruition.

He hadn’t been in any kind of state to learn of Peggy’s death.  He’d been stupid, stupid and rash.  

So he was alone.  Queer or not, it wasn’t like that was anything new.

When he’d agreed to Doctor Erskine’s experiment, he’d known that all kinds of things could go wrong—and death was only one of the things on that list.  He’d accepted the risks.  He’d thought it was worth the chance to make a difference.  Living under the ice all those years, waking up to find himself alone and isolated from everything and everyone…  It was an unpredicted side effect, that’s all.

He’d just have to find a way to deal with it.  

Ignoring it like he’d done those months he waited hadn’t worked.  Finding someone to love him…  It didn’t happen for everybody.  Life just didn’t have that in store for him.  Hanging onto the past was a mistake.  The past was lost to him, and dwelling on it wasn’t a good idea.

Steve was at a loss.  All he knew was he couldn’t go back the way he was.

Tony came back a few minutes later.

“All right,” he said.  “We’re set.”

“Set for what?” Steve asked.

“You’re not ready to go home yet; fine,” Tony said.  “You’re getting a chaperone for the rest of this vacation.”

Steve sat up and regretted it.  Felt like he’d ripped out a slew of stitches in both shoulders and his right arm.

“What?” he asked.  “You?  Oh, no.  That is not happening.”

“C’mon, Capsicle,” Tony said.  “See, your problem is you’re trying to have a road trip without the hilarious friend.  Have you never seen the movie?  Actually, now that I think about it, you’re missing a lot.  Like the childhood sweetheart.  And the sex tape.  And there’s a whole crew of wacky buddies, but you’ll have to make do with just me.”

“This is another one of those references I’ll be better off not getting,” Steve said.  “I can tell.”

“I’ll tell you something else about this road trip failure of yours,” Tony said.  “The only movies where the friends go somewhere remote and untamed are slasher films.  Maybe that appeals to you, grizzly man.  But I don’t do wilderness.  We’re going to a city.  I’ll even let you choose which one.”

“Tony, I don’t want company,” Steve said.  “Sometimes a man needs to be alone with his thoughts.”

“That doesn’t seem to be working out so well for you,” Tony replied.  “So tough.  I’m coming with you to the large metropolitan area of your choice.  Let’s define that:  more than a million people.  Hey—and I’ll throw San Jose in, too.  I like San Jose.”

“This is a terrible idea,” Steve said.

“How about a compromise?” Tony asked.  “A resort or some other luxury destination would also be acceptable.  Aspen.  Telluride.  We’re already in Jackson, with dozens of luxury resorts only minutes away.”  He cocked an eyebrow at Steve.  Steve shook his head.  “Napa Valley.  Waikiki.  Cancun.”

“We don’t like the same kind of thing,” Steve said.  “We don’t even like each other.  There is no scenario here in which we don’t kill each other.”

“So?” Tony said.  “You already tried and it didn’t work.  Might as well try this.”

Steve shut his mouth.

“You’ll hurt my feelings, Cap,” Tony continued.  “I like you a lot.  This is a chance for us to bond.  Become bros.  And here’s what you don’t seem to get yet:  either I stay with you or I drag you home by the ear—and by home, I mean Avengers Tower; no more solitary Brooklyn apartment for you.  That’s it.  Those are your choices.  ‘Cause this kind of thing?  This will get you a place at the Compassionate Care Facility for the Cuckoo Superhero.”

“I’m not crazy,” Steve said.

“You want to explain it to me?” Tony asked.  “‘Cause from here, dirty dancing with grizzly bears looks a little crazy.”

“I don’t know you all that well,” Steve said.  “I don’t know if I can explain it so you understand.”

“Try me,” Tony said.  Steve took a deep breath.

“Okay,” he said.  “Imagine you’re in suspended animation for seventy years.”

“Where do you come up with these fantastical ideas,” Tony said.

“You want me to explain?  Shut up,” Steve said.  “I’m trying.”

“Okay, sorry,” Tony said.  Steve tried again.

“You have a best friend?” he asked.  “A really good friend?  One who would do anything for you, and you’d do anything for him?  Lay down your lives for each other without a second thought?”

Tony nodded, his face serious.  “Rhodey,” he said.

“Okay, then,” Steve said.  So you’re in suspended animation for seventy years, and when they bring you out of it, everything’s changed.  You hardly recognize parts of your hometown.  Pepper’s alive—but she’s nearly a hundred years old.  She’s lived a whole life without you—husband, kids, grandkids.  And she’s not always as sharp as she used to be.  She forgets you, sometimes.”  Tony’s brow furrowed.  Steve plunged ahead.  “And Rhodey’s alive somehow, and he’s young like you, but he’s been through hell.  He hates you.  He wants you out of his life for good.”  Steve blinked a few times and took another couple of deep breaths.  “Then you meet someone—someone you spark with—and you start to think you’ve got a reason to start over.  Something more than duty.  And then she says you’re through.  She pushes you away.”  Tony was frowning now.  Steve was nearly done, though; he could make it through this last part.  “So you leave.  Maybe you go to the aquarium.  You wander around the exhibits without seeing much.  You decide to call a friend to ask for a little advice, and he tells you Pepper’s dead.”  He exhaled hard.  “So you’ve been feeling pretty lonely—and confused about some things—and you think you’re always gonna be that way.  And you look up, and there’s the shark tank.  Most days you’d walk on by without thinking about it.  Right at that moment, you want to jump in.  And the sharks are right there.”

“So you do,” Tony said.

Steve nodded.  “Yeah.”

Tony was quiet for a while.

“Do I have to paint the Stars and Stripes all over my suit in this hypothetical situation?” he asked.

“This is such a terrible idea,” Steve said.

“Suck it up, Cap,” Tony said.  “Your doctor says you can check out, but you need to stay in Jackson for a bit.  She wants to look at your ankle again in a few days and you are going to have a fun regimen of booster shots for a while.  So.  Hospital food sucks and the bed is pathetic and there’s no view.  We’re moving to the Amangani, and I’m going to hire the hottest nurse in this town to wait on you hand and foot until you’re able to leave.  You will just have to suffer through best you can.”

“I don’t get any say in this?” Steve asked.

“Sure,” Tony said.  “You want to stay at the Four Seasons instead, say the word.”

 

***

 

Tony wouldn’t have admitted that it hurt his feelings when Cap didn’t move in if Pepper had said that threesome with that one actress could happen if he did.  He’d lived most of his life under the media’s concentrated attention, and he was used to having to admit to all kinds of things that were embarrassing.  This didn’t fall into that category.  

This hurt.

It hurt a lot.  It hit him right in the “your father is never going to approve of you.”

He and the Capsicle were never going to be drinking buddies.  Cap was too stiff and righteous and Tony was too—  Too Tony.  

And it was ridiculous to see Cap as a father figure.  Cap was younger than he was.  

Though he was older than Tony, too, in a way—both years older and years younger than Tony.  And Tony couldn’t seem to stop doing it.  He’d daydreamed too many times as a child about what it would be like if Captain America—brave, heroic, kind Captain America—was his father instead of brilliant but distant and demanding Howard Stark.

Tony and Cap had gotten over that initial antagonism.  And Cap was living in D.C. for a while, so it’s not like he would have used his place much.  But when Cap came back to New York and rented a Brooklyn walk-up instead of moving into the beautiful suite Pepper and Tony had designed for him, the entire floor of Avengers Tower they had set aside for him…

That was a punch to the gut.

It had helped when Cap asked if Barnes could have it.  He’d never seen that look on Cap’s face, and Tony couldn’t have said no if he’d wanted to.  He’d been happy to have Barnes, even if it meant he was getting an unstable assassin as a neighbor.  Bruce and the Other Guy were great neighbors.  Natasha was an assassin, and there were upsides to her living in Avengers Tower.  Pepper liked having another woman around to chat with, and Tony liked how sometimes she walked around in nothing but a towel.  Soon as Barnes got this Winter Soldier thing under him, he’d be great.  He was reputed to be a fun guy before he fell off a train, and it would make Cap happy.

And Cap had spent a lot of time with Pepper working to furnish the place.  He’d had time to burn while Barnes refused to see him.  So he and Pepper discussed balance and lines and mood and focal points and whether or not something could stand up to a cybernetic arm and whether or not Bucky liked that color, and Tony basked in the cozy domesticity of it.  He hadn’t even fussed when Cap insisted on paying for everything; because Cap might not know it yet, but he was moving in for sure.

Tony had thought that until he’d met Barnes.

He’d been pissed then, because Tony had given this gift to Cap; and Cap had turned around and made it as perfect for Bucky Barnes as it could be, and Barnes had said “call me James” and kicked Cap to the curb.

Cap had come by more than ever, though; and he’d seemed happy, even with that perpetual furrow in his brow.  So even though Tony was liable to poke at things, he had let it be.  Cap and Barnes would work it out, or they wouldn’t; and nothing Tony did was going to change that.

Barnes wasn’t bad; and Tony had eventually come to think of him as James, and even like him.  And when he saw how uncomfortable he was around Cap, he’d forgiven him for not wanting Cap as a roomie.  Cap had seemed okay with it, too.  It wasn’t what he wanted, but he accepted it; and he still came by all the time.  It was nearly as good as having him living under Tony’s roof.

Because for the longest time, Pepper had been all Tony had.  And now he had a whole handful of pretty incredible people, and Cap was one of them.  Tony wanted them close by.

So that was the way things had been.  Tony still didn’t get Cap all that well, but he wasn’t ever going to relate well to that “duty is everything” attitude Cap had.  When Cap took off suddenly, Tony thought he understood the reason for that little wrinkle between Cap’s eyebrows.  It was just like Cap to have second thoughts about letting Tony foot the bill for the Avengers.  Tony was pretty sure he could talk Cap around if he decided against staying.  And he would probably push Cap to dig his heels in if he tried to interfere; Cap could be stubborn like that.  So he let it ride.

It was entertaining to watch Natasha and James freak the hell out about Cap’s disappearance, though; and nice to know he wasn’t the only one who relied on Cap’s solid, quiet presence, even if most of the time none of them showed it.  Because the Capsicle never meant to manipulate anyone, but he sure could turn the screws to get a guy to do the “right thing.”  Just try to tell him no.  Tony hadn’t been able to do it since Thor’s nasty brother brought uninvited aliens to stomp on New York. 

Then Tony got the call from that park ranger at Yellowstone, and everything he thought he knew about Cap fell apart.

Cap was about as unhappy as a man could be; and he’d been walking around doing his duty instead of curled up under a blanket because he didn’t know how to admit it, and he didn’t know when to quit, and he didn’t know how to ask for help.  And none of them had seen it.  Not Tony or Natasha, who both watched Cap more than either admitted.  Not Pepper, who had that intuitive sense about people.  Not Bruce, who’d been there.  Not James, who Tony would have thought knew Cap better than anyone.

Tony gave Clint a pass.  He’d been in and out so much doing who knew what for Fury that he hadn’t had much of an opportunity to see what was going on with their fearless leader.

So none of them knew how close Cap was to throwing himself under a train until he’d decided getting mauled by a bear would be a good way to die.

He’d nearly done it, too.  If that ranger hadn’t torn into Cap’s bag, found his cell phone, and called Tony…  Thinking about how close it had been made Tony sweat.  What Cap thought the Avengers would do without him, he had no idea.  He had no idea how Cap didn’t know his star-spangled self was what held them together.

Tony wasn’t sure how he was going to fix this, but he had to.  He’d fix it, and he was keeping Cap on a close leash until he was better.  

So he called Pepper.

“Hey, Pep,” he said.  “Got a minute?”

“You can have fifteen, even,” she said.  “What’s going on?  Your message last night was vague.”

“Cap needs me, and I don’t know how long it’s going to take,” Tony said.  “So don’t sign me up for anything for the foreseeable future, and I’m going to miss whatever you might have signed me up for already.”

“Avenger business?” she asked.  “I thought you were done with that except for funding and housing.  You destroyed all your Iron Man suits.”

“Yeah, about that,” Tony said.  “I was bored, so I built a new one.  Maybe a couple more.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

“I swear to you I’m going to be there when you need me,” he said.  “I’m going to take time for us, and I’m going to be as careful as I can.  But with or without a suit, Iron Man is who I am.”

“You put on that suit and you think you’re invincible,” she said.  “You throw yourself into danger without a second thought.”

“Well, yesterday Cap threw himself in front of a grizzly bear,” Tony said.  “And I couldn’t have saved him without the suit.  So right now I’m feeling okay about that.”

“Oh, Tony,” Pepper said.  “He didn’t—“

“He did,” Tony said.  His voice broke, but who cared?  Pepper would understand.  “He’s a cantankerous old goat who refuses to go back to New York, too; and I’m not going to drag him back against his will.  I wouldn’t be able to keep him there after he healed, anyway.  But I can’t leave him alone when he’s like this.”

“No, of course not,” Pepper said.  “Does it have anything to do with why he left?”

“Not that he said.  He only told me some of why he did it,” Tony said.  “Enough that I know there’s more to it than that.  I don’t know what I’m going to do with him.  But somehow I’ll fix this.”

“If he’s suicidal, he needs more help than just you,” Pepper told him.  “He should talk to somebody—a psychologist, or maybe a trauma-survivor counselor.”

“Can you see Cap in talk therapy?” Tony said.  “‘Cause I have a good imagination, but I can’t picture it.”

“He’s not going to magically get better without help, Tony,” Pepper said.

“We’ll see,” Tony said.  “You don’t always need a shrink to deal with stuff—look at me.  Never had a bit of therapy and I’m great.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” Pepper said.  “That you are an excellent role model for mental health.”

Tony ignored that.

“If anybody calls, don’t tell them anything about it, okay?” he asked.  “Not the other Avengers—not anyone.  Not where I am, not that I’m with Cap—none of it.”

“Of course not,” Pepper said.  “It’s Steve’s decision how much he wants to share, and with who.”  She paused.  “Tell him we care about him.”

“I’m not getting mushy with Cap,” Tony said.  “We have a manlier type of relationship.  Because we are hirsute, square-jawed, manly men.  Cap even has a beard.”

“Oh, Tony,” she sighed.  “I love you, you impossible man.”

“You too,” he said.  “Impossible woman.”

He called Clint next.

“Something came up with Pepper,” he said.  “I’m going to stay with her for a while.  I’m not sure how long.  Enjoy the driver’s seat while I’m gone.”

“Are you kidding me?” Clint asked.  “Where are you?”  Tony deliberately misunderstood him.

“I’m not kidding,” he said.  “You think I’d put Black Widow in charge?  She’d enjoy it too much.  And Bruce would cry.  That leaves you.”  He hung up and set his phone to ring only if Pepper or Cap called.  Then he headed up to Cap’s hospital room to tell him he’d set everything up.

Cap took it better than Tony thought he would.

So Tony got him packed up and delivered to the Amangani, and he got a recommendation for a live-in nurse from Cap’s doctor.  He made that call, called Pepper back to fill her in, and went to see what Cap thought of the Aman.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to check if you caught all Tony's allusions: [here](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/93895907513/tonys-references-and-allusions-aka-stuff-cap-doesnt).


	20. Recovery and Consequences

***

 

_April 6th_

“This is ridiculous,” were Cap’s first words when Tony arrived at the villa.  “Don’t get me wrong.  I’m grateful to get out of the hospital.  But this is some kind of crazy.  We couldn’t stay at a normal hotel?”

“The villa makes more sense,” Tony said.  “We’ll have more privacy this way.  We each have our own bedroom, and there’s one for the nurse, too.  Which reminds me:  I’m sorry; all the stripper-nurses were booked.  You’re getting a real one.”

“Thank goodness,” Cap muttered.  “I don’t need a nurse; but if I have to have one, I want her to keep her clothes on.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Tony said. “But unless you want to go to the hospital twice a day to have your wounds checked, you’re getting a nurse.  And _his_ name is Jeff.”

Cap frowned and stopped complaining.  Tony hid a smile.  He loved it when Cap was speechless because of something he said.

Jeff arrived later that afternoon.  One look at him and Tony suspected he could be a stripper-nurse if he wanted, only he would appeal to a slightly different clientele than Cap and Tony.  But Cap’s doctor had recommended him, so Tony was sure his nursing skills were up to par without taking any of the potential extras into consideration.  He was friendly and straightforward about the care Cap needed, and Cap seemed to like him; and that was all that mattered.  

Tony didn’t know if Cap had any prejudices about sexual orientation, fossil that he was.  He ignored it as far as Tony could tell, and he didn’t know if that was because he didn’t care or because he didn’t notice.  Cap seemed unaware that sex existed, at least as far as it pertained to him.  Either he was discreet, or he wasn’t dating.  It was one of the saddest things Tony had ever seen.  But he liked sex too much to ever understand someone who didn’t.

He wondered how Cap’s “someone you spark with” fit into all of this.  Whether there was sex involved or not, the first relationship Cap had since he was brought out of the ice had crashed and burned, apparently.  

He had been looking forward to laughing at Cap’s hopeless forays into modern dating (he was one hundred percent sure they’d be hopeless), but nothing had ever materialized along those lines.  Cap’s luck with women seemed rotten, that’s for sure.  But Tony couldn’t laugh about it.  Not when it turned out like this.

Natasha didn’t confide in Tony about this kind of thing, but he’d heard her talking to Pepper about it.  When Cap came to work for S.H.I.E.L.D., he worked closely with her; and she didn’t want to have to fend off a relationship with him.  (Tony would have called it conceited,  but he’d seen Black Widow.  He loved Pepper, but he wasn’t _dead_.)  So she tried to set him up time and again.  After a while she was doing it out of friendship instead of self-defense.  But Cap never bit at any of the women she pushed him to ask out.  She thought he was lonely, but intimidated by modern women.  Tony was less sure about that.  Widow could be pushy.  Maybe Cap just liked to choose his own dates.

And then James Buchanan Barnes, the Winter Soldier, came to them for help; and everything went on hold, Cap’s love life included.

How was he supposed to know what was going on with this old-fashioned “strong and stoic on the outside, bleeding to death on the inside” type?  Tony’s experience with men of Cap’s generation was limited.  His father hadn’t been strong or stoic.  James was strong—had to be to have survived all he had—but stoic?  Not so much.  

But it wasn’t right to laugh at Cap for something that hurt like this.  So Tony confined himself to laughing about Cap’s reaction to other things.  Luckily there was plenty of that.  

The personal chef, for example:  “Are you kidding me?  We don’t need someone to cook.  I’ve been feeding myself since 1933.” 

“Do I look like the kind of guy who’ll eat boiled potatoes and ham sandwiches for two weeks?” Tony replied.  “And what is Jeff going to think of us if the guy on crutches is hobbling around the kitchen while I take a dip in the pool?”

Cap snorted.  “You’re not swimming barely a week into April.  That water’s got to be nearly freezing.  I don’t know how it doesn’t have ice on it.”

“It’s heated,” Tony said.  “What kind of luxury villa do you take this for?”

Cap hadn’t looked as shocked when aliens started pouring out of a rift in the sky above Manhattan.  “Are you telling me they heat that whole pool all winter?  For what, six people max can stay here, right?”

“That’s right,” Tony said.  Speechless, Cap shook his head.  Tony ran into town to buy bathing suits for all three of them just to see Cap’s reaction, even though Cap wasn’t allowed to swim until his stitches were removed. Sadly, swim trunks with stars and stripes on them couldn’t be found in Jackson; and Tony didn’t want to venture further while Cap was like this.

He did find red swimrunners with a suggestively-located front zip that he had high expectations for.  Jeff’s eyebrows went up when he saw them, but Cap didn’t blink when he thanked Tony.

The leather pants Cap had been wearing the day Tony rescued him from the bear hadn’t exactly been baggy or conservative like Cap’s usual civilian attire, either.  And built the way he was, Cap didn’t have anything to be ashamed of; but Tony had never thought he flaunted anything, and there was no other word for that suit.

So the swimsuit wasn’t as entertaining as Tony had hoped it would be.  It produced no geezerly complaints at all.  

But more than personal chefs or private pools or any number of other luxuries, Cap complained about staying in Jackson for two weeks so he could complete a course of rabies vaccination under his doctor’s care.

Doctor Finley seemed unimpressed with Captain America.

“I can’t get rabies!” Cap protested.  “And you have no idea if the bear even had it.”

“Do you have empirical evidence that you are immune?” Doctor Finley asked.  “Unless you can demonstrate to me that you can’t catch rabies, we’re going to act as if you have been exposed and you can be infected—at least until it can be proven otherwise.”

Cap frowned.  Actually, Tony crowed to himself, Cap _sulked_.

“How do we ‘prove otherwise,’ then?” he asked.

“Once the NPS has caught and put the bear down, a brain biopsy will show if the bear was infected,” the doctor said.

That got a reaction.

“They can’t do that!” Cap exclaimed.  “That bear didn’t do anything wrong.”

Doctor Finley’s eyebrow went up.

“That bear attacked a human,” she said.  “Its range includes one of the most visited national parks in this country.  Maybe a bear can’t be considered morally culpable, but it can’t be allowed to live either.”

Cap’s jaw clenched, and he was silent for a while.

“I provoked it,” he said at last.  “It’s not its fault.”

Doctor Finley frowned sympathetically.

“I’m sorry,” she said.  “That doesn’t matter.  What it’s done once, it may do again.”

“I’m not going to help them identify it,” Cap said.  “And I didn’t injure it.  There’s no way to tell it from any other bear in the park.”

Tony winced.

“My first repulsor included a transmitter the rangers gave me,” he said.  “They’re tracking it already.”

Cap glared at him and didn’t say anything for the rest of his check up.  When they arrived back at their villa, he hobbled out to the seating area next to the pool and dropped in a chair.  He leaned his elbows on his knees and hid his face in his hands.  Tony guessed Cap did the wrong thing so seldom, he didn’t know how to deal with the guilt.  Tony had plenty of practice; and he would typically recommend drinking, but since that didn’t work for Cap…

He wasn’t sure what to say.

Jeff found him in the living room, watching Cap out the sliding glass doors.

“Isn’t he cold out there?” he asked.  Tony shrugged.  Jeff’s eyes narrowed.  “Bad news from Doctor Finley?”

“In a way,” Tony said.  “He learned they’re planning to put down the bear.”

Jeff’s eyebrows shot up.

“The bear that mauled him?  And he’s _upset_ about it?” he asked.

“He feels responsible,” Tony said.

“How can it be his fault that a grizzly bear attacked him?” Jeff asked.  Tony didn’t answer.  Finally, he shrugged.

“Near as I can tell, he feels responsible for everything,” he said.

Jeff frowned.

“Do you mind if I talk to him about it?” he asked.  “Maybe he just needs a sympathetic ear.”

“Be my guest,” Tony said.  He watched as Jeff approached Cap.  Cap gestured to a chair, and Jeff seated himself.  He leaned in and said something.  Cap shrugged, but after a minute he started talking.  Good.  Tony retreated to his bedroom.  Cap wasn’t the only one who needed a sympathetic ear.

“Hey, Pep,” he said when she answered his call.  “Miss me?”

“Hold on a minute,” she said.  “The cabana boy’s done massaging my back and I have to turn over so he can get the front.”

He could hear her send her assistant out, and then she was back.

“How is Steve doing?” she asked.  “How are you?”

“The doctor said the usual things,” Tony said.

“That’s good news, right?” Pepper said.

“Sure,” Tony sighed.  There was a long silence.

“What’s wrong, Tony?” Pepper prompted.

“I’m not a hunter,” he told her.  “You know that.  I’m not going to rush out to join PETA.  But I don’t decorate with dead animals, and I’m never going to give you a fur coat.”

“I wouldn’t wear it if you did,” she said.  “Go back a step or two, because I’m not following you.  How does this relate to Steve’s doctor’s visit?”

“Any bear that attacks a human is put down,” Tony told her.  “National Park Service policy.”

“Oh, that’s sad,” Pepper said.  “But it makes sense—and it protects the bears, too; because if people became outraged because of what one bear did, it would be harder to justify protecting them as a whole.”

“The doctor told Steve,” he said.  “He was upset.  Really upset.”

“You’re upset too,” she said.  “I can hear it in your voice.”

“I’m the one who tagged the bear,” he said.  “If I knew Cap wasn’t going to like it, I’d still do it—but I like going into something _knowing_ Cap’s going to disapprove, you know?  I’m used to it.  If I didn’t disappoint Cap five times a day the world might end.  But I like to mentally prepare.”  He paused.  “And—ah, Pep, I was—I _liked_ it.  I saw that animal pummeling Cap, and—I was vicious.  I’d have flayed that bear open with a pocket knife.  But Cap’s face when the doctor said—“

“Oh, Tony,” she said.  “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry.  I’m sure he doesn’t blame you.”

“It’s not just about that,” Tony said.  “Though a lot of it is about that, but—I feel sick.  I’ve never had any illusions about being a good man—“

“You _are_ a good man,” Pepper insisted.

“I’m not a _bad_ man,” Tony said.  “I have lots of good qualities.  Some of them aren’t even in the bank.  But I am well aware of my flaws, and I wouldn’t say I’m good.  Not like Cap.  Not like you.  But I didn’t know I had _that_ in me.”

“You hold yourself to impossible standards,” Pepper said.  “You’re human.  You care about us.  This is what happens.  How do you think I feel every time you are in danger?”

“I’m scratching pocket knife off your Christmas list,” Tony said.

Pepper—sighed, laughed?  He couldn’t tell.  “I don’t think I need one anymore.”

“Maybe not,” he said.  “I built Iron Man to protect people, and for a minute, I was glad I could destroy something.  And Cap’s disappointed in me.”

“Tony, you don’t disappoint Steve nearly as often as you think you do,” she said.  “And you were protecting someone.  You were protecting Steve.  And I am _sure_ that if he is disappointed in anyone, it is in himself.”

“Believe me, he’s that too,” Tony said.

***

 

Cap was still quiet at dinner.  Tony and Jeff maintained a stilted conversation, including Cap when they could; but he responded tersely.

“Cross-country,” was his reply to Jeff’s inquiry about skiing.  Jeff teasingly countered that cross-country skiing wasn’t ‘real skiing,’ but Cap just cut another bite of tenderloin and didn’t answer.

Not even Tony’s crack about the Yankees’ winning streak got a rise out of him.

He ate quickly, stood up stiffly on his crutches, went to his bedroom, and didn’t emerge.  After about ten minutes, Jeff stood as well.

“I’ll see if he needs anything, then I’ll head to bed too,” he said.  “See you in the morning.”

Tony nodded.  He poured himself a drink and went outside to look at the stars.  This was shaping up to be the most depressing vacation ever.  Something was going to have to be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The bathing suit Tony had in mind to buy Cap.](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/94389605023/the-swim-trunks-tony-had-in-mind-when-he-went)
> 
>  
> 
> [The bathing suit Tony actually buys Cap.](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/94389740678/the-swim-runners-tony-buys-for-cap-yum)


	21. Caught in the Act

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things, and the most important first: TRIGGER WARNING for off-screen animal death. I'm sorry, folks; you've seen this coming--and I know some of you have been dreading it. I apologize to those people this will upset.
> 
> I do believe that, like dogs, all bears go to heaven. 
> 
> (Too soon? Too Tony? Okay, time to hide...)
> 
> Second: Though I have been working to catch up, I am waaaay behind on responding to comments; and I apologize for that, too! I am always so happy to get them, and I want to _continue_ to get them--so I will get to all of them as soon I can. It is the least I can do--but I thank you for your patience as well as your kindness.

***

 

_April 7th-13th_

The next morning Cap seemed in better spirits, but the first thing he wanted was a church.  He asked Jeff about it as the nurse checked on his wounds.

“There’s a Catholic church on Jackson Street, right as you come into town,” Jeff told him.

“Thanks,” Cap said.  Jeff smiled at him, and Cap smiled in return before turning to Tony.

“Can you take me into town this morning?” he asked.  “Well, let me check when the services are.  But I’d like a ride if you don’t mind.”

Tony extended his hands.

“I cleared my schedule,” he said.  “I was hoping for more loose women.  Wild card games.  Shenanigans.  Churches tend to be low on shenanigans.  But whatever you need, Cap; I’m here.”

The Capsicle gave him the same shy smile he’d given Jeff.  Tony forced himself not to ruffle his hair.

“Thanks, Tony,” he said.  “I’ll let you know.”

Tony was appalled to learn that Mass was every morning at eight.  They’d missed it already that day, but Cap seemed resolved to go the next morning.  Jeff volunteered to take Cap, and Tony was happy to sleep instead of fight for the dubious privilege of chauffeuring Cap around at the break of dawn.  He let him.

He wandered out of his bedroom in the morning to find Cap sitting on the dining table, shirt off, while Jeff removed his stitches.  They’d been to Mass and were back, apparently; and now they were performing medical procedures where they ate.  Tony hated being the killjoy, but he disapproved.  He didn’t want any of those stitches in his breakfast.

“You should have a medical staff on retainer,” Jeff told him.  “I can’t say for the rest of you; but after having cared for Steve for only a few days, I can tell you that he needs a doctor who knows how he heals.  Normally Doctor Finley would do this, but I didn’t think it could wait until she had a free appointment.  There’s no way she could have predicted he’d heal like this—not without having treated him before.  It would be another week before you or I showed this sort of progress.”  He snipped another stitch and rested his hand briefly on Cap’s shoulder.  “You’re just too much for us mortals to keep up with.”

Oh, that was hilarious.  Cap blushed when Jeff flirted with him.  Tony hid a smirk in his coffee.  If there was a stitch or two in his omelette, he’d deal with it.  He wished he had a camera handy.  Everybody back home needed to see this.

Cap wasn’t too happy about being stuck in Jackson until he got Doctor Finley’s okay, but he was stoic about it; and Jeff good-naturedly ran him back and forth to church a few times and checked on his wounds and administered his shots—and if he had Cap take his shirt off a little more than necessary, Tony was willing to overlook it for the sheer amusement of seeing Cap flustered and shy.  Without a workshop or Pepper, Tony was mostly bored.  There wasn’t much for him to do but watch over Cap and call Clint to check in every now and then.  He was dealing with the Avengers—complaining, but dealing with it.

Finally Clint complained enough that Tony left Jeff to get Cap to his doctor’s appointment and flew back to New York to see how bad it was for himself. The NPS had caught the bear the same day Cap learned about the grizzly’s impending fate, and Doctor Finley had sent the sample off to the CDC the next day. Cap called to say the results had come back: the bear hadn’t had rabies. Doctor Finley had shaken her head and said that as long as Cap wore a brace on his ankle for a few days, he was free to go. Cap sounded like he didn’t know if Christmas had come early or been cancelled.

Tony didn’t have any mixed feelings about it—not the bear’s death and not getting out of Wyoming. He felt like dancing as he flew back to Jackson. He and Cap still hadn’t agreed on where they were going next, but they’d narrowed it down to Denver, Seattle, or San Francisco. JARVIS had agreed to monitor the New York situation and tell Tony if the Avengers got themselves into trouble, but it had better be serious. He didn’t want to know unless one of their lives was in the balance. JARVIS’ “very well, sir,” was disapproving; but if it was bad enough, Clint would call again or JARVIS would tell him about it whatever Tony said.

Cap insisted on riding his motorcycle at least part of the way, but that was fine.  Tony planned to use that extra time to set up the places they were going to stay and special Cap tortures:  massage and acupuncture and Reiki and hypnotherapy and any other sort of holistic healing technique he could think of.  He was sure Cap was planning on dragging him along on whatever sort of thing Cap did for fun, so it was only self-defense.  And maybe they’d find something that would help Cap.

It took him two minutes in the suit to cover what took half an hour to drive.  He took a moment after he landed to enjoy the view.  It was gorgeous here.  Pepper might like to come for a little stargazing on her birthday.  He’d see about making a reservation.  He walked around the back by the pool to think about a plan.  A guy with a violin could stand back there and be inconspicuous, and with candles sort of scattered around—they could still see the stars but it would give the place some romance, and—  

He sniffed.

Was that pot?  As of five that afternoon, Jeff was technically not Cap’s nurse anymore; but it was tacky to light up a joint at a client’s place, and Tony was the one who had to explain the stench to the Amangani.

He blamed Cap for this.  It was Cap’s fault Tony had become responsible.  He turned to go in the sliding glass door.

Oh, his _eyes_.  

What was it with those two and the dining room table?  

Cap was shirtless, lying back on the table with his hands gripping the edges.   Jeff knelt between his thighs; and from the look on Cap’s face, he was enjoying what Jeff was doing a lot.  Once _again_ , Tony’d been wrong about Cap.  That wasn’t the expression of someone who didn’t like sex.  That was the expression of someone shocked by how good the sex he was having right that minute was.  Tony shuddered.  It was like walking in on his parents playing Naughty French Maid.  He never wanted to see Cap’s face while Jeff blew him ever again.  He was thrilled to learn Cap had a sex drive after all; Cap could have all the sex he wanted.  But never anywhere Tony might see it.  He was going for a walk and he wasn’t coming back for half an hour.  Forty-five minutes, maybe—Cap had a lot of stamina.

Probably an hour, hour and a half was safest.  Tony turned, and—

Oh, hell no.  That was _not_ happening, not on Tony’s watch.  He pulled open the sliding glass door and strode into the house.

“There are some things that shouldn’t happen where we eat, and medical procedures and sex are two of the biggies,” Tony said.  “What is it with you two?”

Cap shot up, his face beet red; and Jeff tumbled backwards onto his ass.

“Sorry,” Cap said, his head swiveling between Tony and Jeff.  “I—Sorry.”  Cap didn’t run away, ever; but Tony had a hard time calling the way he hurried to his room, his hand holding his pants up, anything else.

Jeff smiled shamefacedly at Tony.

“Very professional,” Tony said.  “I’ll make sure to mention it in your reference.”

“Sorry,” Jeff said.  “I thought it would take longer for you to get back.”

“That’s what you’re apologizing for?” Tony asked.  “Not for throwing your professional ethics in the trash, or taking advantage of a national icon?  Sorry you caught us?”

“Steve and I are both consenting adults,” Jeff said.  “And maybe it’s not exactly orthodox for me to have sex with someone so soon after I was nursing him, but officially our professional relationship is over.  I’m not violating some code of conduct or anything.  And come on!  Have you _seen_ him? How any self-respecting gay guy couldn’t take a shot at that, I don’t know.  I didn’t do anything he didn’t want.”

“Yeah?” Tony said.  He walked over to the bookshelf, picked up Jeff’s camera, and turned off the video recorder.  “He agreed to this?  Because somehow that doesn’t seem like something Cap would do.”

Jeff paled.

“I wasn’t going to show it to anyone,” he said.  “I just wanted something to remember!  I mean, it’s _Captain America_!  I could hardly believe it when you hired me; and he’s sweet and funny and shy, and even better-looking in person, if that’s possible—good God, his body!  Never in a million years does a guy like me get a shot like that.”

“You keep saying that, like he’s some kind of big game animal you’ve bagged,” Tony said.  “It’s obnoxious.  And if you really cared about him, you wouldn’t do that to him for any reason.  Do you know what this would _do_ to him?  If he knew you’d done it?  If it got out?”

“I’d never—“ Jeff said.

“Lend your phone to a nosy friend?  Get drunk or high and brag a little?  Show off to impress someone?” Tony asked.  “No, you won’t.”  He flexed his wrist and let the suit cover his arm all the way down to his hand, then crushed the phone to dust.  “Get out.”

“Hey!  My phone—my stuff—“ Jeff protested.  “I haven’t packed!”

“You can come back tomorrow after we’ve left,” Tony said.  “Get out before I decide to break more than your phone.”

Jeff bit his lip, wavered, and went.

Tony let the suit’s gauntlet retreat and stared at the floor for a minute before going to knock on Cap’s bedroom door.

“Cap?” he asked.  “Can I come in?”

No answer.

“I’m coming in,” Tony warned.  Still nothing.  Tony opened the door.  Cap was fully dressed, sitting on the side of his bed, bent over with his hands over his face.  Ah, hell.  He needed Pepper for this.  Tony crossed the room to sit next to Cap.  Cap—  

No way.

“Did he share that joint with you?” Tony asked.  “I thought you couldn’t get drunk.”

“I can’t get drunk,” Cap said.  He didn’t lift his head.  “Apparently I can get high.  And stupid.  I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“So am I,” Tony said.  “But that’s because I never want to see your O-face.  Never, ever again.  Not because you’re straight or gay or bi- or a- or pan- or whatever-sexual.  Any and all of that is fine.  Great.  I’m happy for you.  But you and me and sex—those things should never intersect.”  Cap huffed a little, and it might have been a chuckle, so Tony kept going.  “So was the sudden road trip inspired by some big gay epiphany?”

“Not exactly,” Cap said.  “Sort of—but mostly that came later.”

“Someone you ‘sparked with?’” Tony asked.  Cap nodded.

“He showed me—“ he started.

“Stop right there,” Tony said.  “I do _not_ want to hear about what he showed you.”

“Don’t worry,” Cap said.  “You and I are _never_ having that conversation.  It wasn’t like that, anyway.  But he asked me out, and I told him it wasn’t a date and I wasn’t queer, and he—he made me think about something that started me thinking that maybe I was.  Bisexual, anyway.  And that it could be okay.”  He paused.  “It wasn’t like Jeff.  That was—  I shouldn’t have done that.  But Hansen—I liked him.  I thought we— I liked him a lot.”

“So what happened?” Tony asked.  “You said he pushed you away?”

“Captain America happened,” Cap said.  “He found out who I was, and that was it.  He walked away.”

Tony thought for a minute.

“At least that settles a couple things,” he said.

“Like what?” Cap asked.  “I might feel better about it in the morning, but right this minute I’m wishing I’d never met Hansen and never figured this out.  It was easier not to know.”

“First of all:  we’re going to San Francisco,” Tony said.  “It’s on the required syllabus for gay men.”

“I’m not gay,” Cap said.  “I’m bisexual.  No, cursed is what I am.  I’m never going to—“  He turned his head to look at Tony.  His eyes were red and swollen, and it wasn’t just from the pot.  Tony wanted to kill Jeff and this Hansen guy, just a little bit.  “I want to be the reason someone smiles when they walk in the door, you know?  But that’s never gonna be me.”

Tony ignored that.  He was not prepared for that without Pepper’s backup.

“Second:  we’re calling in your friend Sam,” he said.  “Because I’ve never been wingman for a gay—sorry, bisexual—guy before, so I need reinforcements.  Why not the guy with the wings?  And by the way—you have never been so wrong in your life; and I am including in that not only your entire old wardrobe but also the decision to paint a red, white, and blue bullseye on your shield.  Yes, Jeff was a bad idea for more than one reason; but you should have heard him wail about _Captain America_.  Three-quarters of the population of San Francisco isn’t going to ‘smile when you walk in the door.’  When they learn you’re bisexual and single, they’re going to be dancing in the streets and singing the _Hallelujah Chorus_.  Sam and I aren’t going to have to talk you up; our job is going to be holding them off long enough for you to pick someone you like.  Maybe someone who’s not got his mouth on your dick two seconds after he’s not working for you anymore.”

“This is starting to sound like that awful college kid road trip movie you forced me to watch, only queer,” Cap said.

“I know,” Tony said.  “Isn’t it great?”

Cap bit his lip.

“The thing is—Hansen liked me before he knew I was Captain America,” he said.  “And that’s why he walked away, but—I’d rather have that than someone who wants Captain America but couldn’t care less about Steve Rogers.”

“I know what that’s like,” Tony said.  “There have been women chasing me for my wallet instead of my personality since I hit puberty.  But keeping it a secret isn’t going to be easy for a guy like you.  You hate to hide, and you’re a terrible liar; and no matter what you do, it’s going to be high profile.  I don’t think you should parade through the streets in your red, white, and blue uniform with a personal ad taped to your shield.  But you might want to start thinking about how to tell people you’re interested in.  Have you talked to anybody about this?  Sam, maybe?”

“Nobody knows,” Cap said.  “I mean, Hansen and Jeff, obviously—and these two crazy guys I ran into in Minneapolis, but—you’re the first person who knows me to find out.  That I’m queer.”  He paused.  “Sam doesn’t know.  I don’t know how to tell him.  I’ve never _told_ anyone.  Hansen told _me_.  Jeff and those other two—they just took one look at me and knew.  I have no idea how.  How am I supposed to—it doesn’t just work itself into the conversation.  Sam and I have never talked about this, and I don’t have any idea how he’ll take it.”

“We’ll write a script before you call him,” Tony said.  “‘I need you to come host my big bisexual orgy’ can come last.”

Cap shook his head.

“That’s just strange,” he said.  “We’re not writing a script.  You don’t have a conversation with a friend from a script.  And don’t get ahead of yourself.  There’s not gonna be any kind of orgy.”  He stared at the floor for a couple minutes, and Tony waited. Finally he scrubbed his face, pulled out his phone, and dialed.

“Sam?” he said after Wilson answered.  “If you can get away for a while, I could use some help.  Tony Stark’s buying you a plane ticket to San Francisco for three days from now.”  His eyes narrowed as he looked at Tony.  “A first class plane ticket.”  Tony shrugged.  Why not?  The guy was going to earn it.  Cap took a deep breath and sat up straight.  His shoulders went back and his jaw firmed—it was like watching him put on Captain America the way Tony put on his suit.  “But first I have to tell you.”  He took another deep breath.  “I’m queer.  Um.  Bisexual.  And this is a ‘help me get this figured out’ kind of job.  If you’re not in for that—“  He stopped.  Tony could hear Sam chewing Cap out and nodded to himself.  He’d been pretty sure Sam Wilson was good people, but it was nice to have that confirmed.

“All right, all right,” Cap said.  “I’m sorry—no, I didn’t—this isn’t easy for me—Okay.  Yeah.  I don’t know; I’ll call you back.”  He hung up and looked at Tony.  “Sam’s in.”

“Great,” Tony said.  “This is going to be so much fun.”

“You scare me when you say that,” Cap said.

“Ahh, don’t make me blush,” Tony replied.  “Now get some sleep while I call my lawyers and have them work up some non-disclosure agreements for all your imminent anonymous gay hookups.”

“I’m not having ‘anonymous hookups,’” Cap said.  “I’m figuring some things out.”

“Yes,” Tony said.  “And the traditional way people figure this kind of thing out is:  they have sex.”

Cap shook his head, and Tony could see that this was going to be one of their protracted arguments.  He bumped Cap’s shoulder a little with his own before standing and ruffling Cap’s hair.  Cap batted his hand away and frowned at him.

“This is going to be great,” Tony said, and left Cap to his thoughts.

Damn.  He had thought he had Cap all figured out, and he hadn’t known a thing about him.

Tony grinned.  This was going to be _great_.

 


	22. Back in New York

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After missing Steve at Rushmore, Natasha and Bucky bow to Tony's demand that they return to New York. As time passes and Steve doesn't return, Bucky does his best to put Steve's absence from his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's chapter is a bit on the short side, but it seemed best to break it here rather than include Natasha's pov--which when added to Bucky's made a chapter that was growing rather long. So in chapter 23, Natasha will share how she sees these events, and perhaps a bit more...

***

 

_March 16th-17th_

It was fucking annoying to come back to New York to find that Steve had sent two boxes of books from the University of Minnesota bookstore care of Tony Stark like he was off on fucking sabbatical, not hiding from the world.  It was a damn taunt.  When they came, Tony snorted and the boxes disappeared somewhere.  Buck didn’t know if he opened them up and he didn’t fucking care.  Put a book in front of Steve and he’d read it.  Could be anything.

If Steve wanted books, he didn’t need to leave New York to get ‘em.  Those two boxes were just a distraction from the real question, which was where the fuck had Steve gone after Minneapolis?  

And why the hell had he run off in the first place?  Buck still couldn’t explain why or how he knew that Steve’s note to Tony was a load of bullshit, but he did and it was.  Fuck him if he cared why Steve “I’d tell a guy who just beat the shit out of me he dropped his wallet while he was breaking my nose” Rogers suddenly started lying his ass off.  He didn’t fucking care if it was ‘cause he walked in on him and Natasha.  If that was what it was, Steve needed to fucking get over it and move on. 

Bucky had never stolen a girl Steve wanted before, so he didn’t have much of an idea about how Steve would react.  But he wouldn’t have expected it to be like this.  It wasn’t like Natasha was Steve’s girl in the first place.  And Buck hadn’t gotten too fucking far with the stealing; though not having been around for a few weeks, Steve wouldn’t know that.  She and Barton were damn quiet about their relationship, and it seemed like maybe it was a complicated arrangement.  Buck hadn’t known about it.  Steve might not have known about it either.

But Steve had known Natasha a lot longer than Buck had, so maybe he was deeper in it than Buck.  She might be about the most beautiful dame Buck had ever seen and his only fucking option until Tony fixed up that damn skin covering for his arm; and Buck liked her a lot—but his heart wasn’t broken or anything that she’d shut him down.  Steve, though…  If Steve ever fell for anybody, it was gonna be with his heart, not his dick.

The thing Buck kept coming back to was this:  Steve Rogers wouldn’t fucking run.  Not unless he was about as low as a guy could get.  Maybe not even then.  He’d go down before he’d run.  Look how he’d been with Buck.  He’d taken everything Buck dished out for six fucking months without saying one word about it.  He’d saved the world, and he’d saved the Winter Soldier ‘cause he used to be Bucky, and then he’d taken every hit the Soldier laid on him like it was a blessing.  Buck knew in his gut.  Steve was gonna die before he was gonna hurt Bucky or leave him.

He wasn’t gonna feel guilty about it.  He wasn’t.  If Steve didn’t want to put up with his shit, he didn’t have to.  Nobody was fucking making him.

There was a piece of him that wondered if he’d done the impossible:  managed to drive Steve off after all.  Because every fucking day turned out to be another day that Steve didn’t come back to New York.

The Avengers had a quiet couple of weeks, mostly running these personalized training exercises Tony’d given them—one for everybody, Buck included.  They were pretty great.  Challenging but not impossible.  Fun, even.  Steve’s disappearance stayed on Buck’s mind some; but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it, so he didn’t think about it any more than he could help.

He went through more than a few punching bags; but that was ‘cause of Tony’s fucking incredible training regimen, no other reason.

Then one Sunday afternoon while Buck was reading about this camera he was thinking about getting, JARVIS interrupted him.

“Mister Barnes,” he said.  “Doctor Banner has requested the Avengers meet him in the communal lounge.”

“I ain’t an Avenger,” Buck said, and immediately felt fucking stupid because he was talking to the fucking ceiling.  

And he was curious.  Banner stayed holed away on his floor and in his laboratory most of the damn day.  Buck hadn’t spent more than ten minutes talking to the guy.  So he went back and forth about it a little, but in the end he went to the lounge.

Like always, he was the last one there.

“He just left?” Natasha was asking Banner as Buck walked in.  “Didn’t say a word about why?”

“He got a call,” Banner told her.  “JARVIS monitors incoming calls, and the only ones he patches through right away are from a short list of people.  Pepper.  Rhodey.  President Ellis.  Us.  If there’s anyone else on that list, I don’t know who it is.  When he gets a call, he tends to stop talking mid-sentence and stare at the wall; but sometimes he does that when he gets a new idea.  I don’t know if it’s a call or not until he starts talking.  This one was short.  He said, ‘calm down; calm down,’ and then he said, ‘I’m on my way.’”  And he was running out the door as he said it.”

“Running?” Natasha asked.  “I have never seen him run.  Ever.”

“Let’s calm down a minute ourselves,” Barton said.  “Tony gets excited about a lot of stuff.  A new car.  Obscure records he won on eBay.  Maybe it’s something simple.  Did you ask JARVIS where he went?”

“Well?” Natasha asked.  “JARVIS?”

“I regret I am unable to provide information as to Mister Stark’s location,” JARVIS said.

“That could be more reassuring,” Barton said.

“Unable because you don’t know, or unable because Tony said not to?” Natasha asked.  There was a touch of an edge to her voice.

“Mister Stark has requested that the Avengers remain at Avengers Tower in case of emergency,” JARVIS replied.  “He asks that I keep his location private for the time being.  As always, I am monitoring his vital signs; and should Mister Stark require assistance, I am to contact you immediately.”

“Fat fucking lot of good that’ll do if he took the jet,” Buck said.  “We gonna flap our wings like little birdies to get there?”

There was a long silence.

“JARVIS?” Natasha asked.  The edge in her voice was sharper.  “How did he leave?”

“Mister Stark was wearing the Mark XLVI,” JARVIS said.

Another stunned silence.

“At least we have the jet if we need to follow him,” Barton said.

“That’s not the first thought that came to mind,” Banner said.

“You didn’t know he was working on another suit?” Natasha asked.

Banner shook his head.

“The real question is, does Pepper know?” he said.

That was one beautiful dame, Tony’s girl.  Sweet, and damn spunky, too.  Buck perked up quick, but deflated just as fast.  If she wasn’t crazy about Tony’s suits, she wasn’t gonna be smiling at a guy whose metal was fucking built in.

That seemed to be the end of it, so Buck wandered back to his camera research.  He leaned back in his chair and realized:  Tony was gone.  It might not be as peaceful as his own place, but at least the watchdog was AWOL.  For a minute Buck thought about taking his revenge out on Tony’s place, but he gave it up with a sigh.  Tony wasn’t a bad guy.  Buck liked him when he wasn’t his damn designated babysitter.

When Buck got back from dinner the next day, Natasha was waiting for him.

“Talia!” he exclaimed.  “If I’d known tonight was the night, I’d have made the bed and chilled some champagne.”

Natasha rolled her eyes.

“Get packed,” she said.  “You’re moving in with me and Clint.”

“Like hell I am,” Buck said.  “I finally get one night of privacy again, and you think I’m giving it up to move in with the two of you?  Not unless Barton’s the one with the cold bed, sweetheart.”

“I don’t like the way we’re disappearing one by one,” she said.  “First Steve, now Tony—  Uh uh.  You move in with us or you let me implant a tracer on you.”

“There is no fucking way in hell you are putting a fucking tracer any-fucking-where on my fucking body,” Buck said.  “You try it and I won’t be playing around when I stop you.”

Natasha crossed her arms and stared coldly at him.

“Then pack up and get downstairs,” she said.  “I want you all where I can see you.”

“What about Banner?” Buck asked.

“I already put a tracer in all his pants,” she said.  “I’ll get the pair he’s wearing tomorrow.”

“I guess I should fucking well be grateful you consulted me,” Buck said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Natasha said.  “I’m not _consulting_ you.  But it’s too likely you’d find any tracer I planted on you and take it off.”

“I’ll do it if I get my guns back,” Buck said after a minute.

“Two of them,” she countered.

“Five,” he said.

“No,” she said.  “It’s two or nothing.”

“You are one cold woman,” Buck said.  “You and Barton better not flaunt all the sex you’re having in my face, or I’m gonna hire a fuck-ton of prostitutes and have a fucking orgy on the living room sofa.  There is only so much a guy can take.”

She patted him on the cheek like he was a fucking kid.

“Dinner’s at seven,” she said.  “Be moved in by then.”

Buck watched as she sashayed out the door.  Fuck his life.  No one better be surprised when he did every damn thing he could think of to irritate the hell out of them.  

Ah, fuck.  At least Tony said sometimes Natasha came up from the sauna wearing nothing but a towel.  Buck hadn’t seen it; but a guy’s gotta have a little hope, right?  From what he remembered, it was definitely a sight worth seeing again.


	23. Avengers Assemble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like the last one, this isn't a particularly long chapter; but I thought it made more sense breaking it into two--one chapter from Bucky's pov and one from Natasha's.

***

 

_April 6th-7th_

After Talia explained how it would be to James, she went down to tell Clint their company would be there by dinner.

“Thank you,” she said.  “You’re very good to me.”

“Immersion therapy is supposed to be the best way to get rid of an aversion,” he said.  “Guess we’ll see.”

Talia kissed him lightly before taking a deep breath.

“I need to tell you something,” she said.

“About you and Barnes?” Clint said.  He reached out to caress her cheek.  “I know I don’t own you, Talia.”

She leaned into his caress briefly, but she wasn’t done yet.  She sat up and looked him in the eye.

“It is about that, but only tangentially,” she said.  “It was the last long mission you took from Nick.  You had been gone a month; and James is nothing if not persistent, and charming when he exerts himself.  So I agreed.”

Clint nodded.

“We had found a conference room and shut out JARVIS when Steve walked in on us ten, perhaps fifteen minutes later,” she said.  “That was the Friday before he didn’t come in on Monday.”

Clint was silent for a moment.

“If his respect for you hinges on some outdated beliefs about a woman’s sexuality, it’s not worth having,” he said.

“I know,” she replied.  “I do.”

“But you want it anyway,” he said.

She nodded, and he took her hand and gently pulled her into his arms.

“It’s just—“ she faltered.  “I didn’t believe men like him existed.  You—and later, Fury—the two of you knew what I was when you trusted me.  What I’ve done—the kind of red there is in my ledger.  You showed me I could be more than that.  But both of you know what it’s like to crawl in the muck.  Steve—before I met him, I laughed at the idea of him.  You and I, and Fury—we were how ‘the good guys’ won.  Because we didn’t have ridiculous ideals.  We did what it took.  But—he is who he is, and he doesn’t know how to be anything less.  And I worked with him; though I am who I am, and he is who he is…”

Clint kissed her temple.  She sighed and leaned her head on his shoulder.

“He trusts you,” he said.  “He knows you, and he knows your secrets, and he trusts you.”

“I don’t have any secrets anymore,” she said.  “And I’m not sure he does trust me.  He didn’t tell me he was planning to leave, and he sent his explanation to Tony rather than to me.  What if his trust is gone because of this?  A moment’s pleasure isn’t worth losing that to me—and I can’t change his having seen it.”

“A woman like you always has secrets,” he said.  “When you choose to share them—that’s how we know you love us.  If his trust is that shallow, it isn’t worth much.”

“It’s not,” she said.  “I know it’s not.”

Clint’s arms tightened gently around her.  She sighed again.

“Then you haven’t lost it,” he said.  “I suspect he’s embarrassed to have seen a colleague and friend like that.”

“I wish he’d call to let us know he’s okay,” she said.

“He’s Captain America,” Clint reminded her.  “What else could he be?”

Talia closed her eyes and shook her head against Clint’s shoulder.  That’s what she was beginning to wonder.

 

***

 

James made a little fuss when he moved in, but only a little; and Talia was expecting it.  Clint had gone into their bedroom for James’ arrival, so she showed him into the guest bedroom alone.

“The damn room is pink,” he said.  He hadn’t moved past the door frame.  “Are you really putting me in a pink fucking room?”

“It’s terra cotta,” Talia told him.  “Clint’s aesthetic is influenced by traditional Mexican design.”

“What the fuck kind of spy has a fucking design aesthetic?” James asked.  That wasn’t a question worth responding to.  She left him to unpack and went to the kitchen to finish dinner.

She had made grilled chicken with a salad of Israeli couscous and sautéed greens, one of Clint’s favorites.  He smiled briefly at her when he saw the table.  

James, on the other hand…

In between bites of chicken, James pushed his Israeli couscous around his plate with a fork.  It was like having a child at the table.

“Is the couscous not to your taste?” Talia asked.  “I might have something else you would prefer.”

James looked up from his plate.  Deliberately she let her gaze fall to his fork, pushing couscous in zigzag stripes.

“What did you say it was?” he asked.

“Israeli couscous,” Talia said.  “Clint likes it.”

“Well if _Clint_ likes it,” he said.  He gave it another nudge with his fork.  “I thought the guests got catered to instead of the damn prison warden.”

“Clint is not a prison warden,” she said.

“Nah, guess not,” he said.  “That would be you, right?”  He leered.  “You got a uniform you’re wearing later?  With handcuffs, maybe?”

“If this is a prison and you’re the guest, the only meal you chose is your last one,” Clint said.

James snorted.  “Good point.”  

He sighed and took a bite of couscous.  He chewed slowly, swallowed, and paused a moment.  He took another bite, and another, until his plate was empty.

Then he eyed the serving bowl.

“That stuff’s not bad,” he said.  “Does anyone else want more?”

“No, thank you,” Talia said.  “Help yourself.”  She stood, and James’ chair screeched against the floor as he stood up also.  She looked cautiously at him.  “I’m only going to the kitchen.”  She reached for her plate, but he beat her to it.

“Nah,” he said.  “You made dinner.  I’ll clean up.”

“You’re still eating,” she pointed out.

“Dishwasher’s privilege to clean the plates, right?” he said.  “I can have more later.”  He turned to Clint.  “Maybe you wanted seconds?”

Clint stared at James for several long seconds.

“Sure,” he said, and spooned a large serving onto his plate.  “But I usually do the dishes.  You are a guest here.”

“Didn’t have time to pick up a hostess’ present,” James said.  “The invitation was damn sudden.  And a prison is the kind of place where the guests do all the work, right?”  He stacked her plate on his and disappeared into the kitchen.

She looked at Clint, and he looked back at her, and after a few moments James returned to clear the rest of the table.  He ignored them as he took away the dishes, unobtrusive as the staff at the most elegant restaurant in the city.

She could only assume that this was James being a gracious guest.  The thought of James as a considerate presence in their home…hovering around helpfully and standing whenever she did and cleaning up after himself…

It made her nervous.  She hoped he stopped soon.

 

***

 

It was late afternoon when they heard from Tony again.  Talia was sparring with James when Clint came into the gym, a determined look on his face, and Bruce following him.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Bruce called Pepper this morning to ask about Tony, and she said she’d talked to him but hadn’t seen him,” he said.  “She said he was fine, though; not to worry.”

“I suppose that’s good news,” she said.

“Except Tony just called me,” Clint said. “He told me that ‘something came up with Pepper’ and I’m in charge while he’s gone.  He wouldn’t tell me where he was, and he didn’t answer his phone when I called him back.”

“Maybe we should call Pepper back,” Talia said.

“We tried,” Bruce replied.  “Right away.  Her assistant claims she’s ‘in a meeting.’”

“JARVIS, how are Tony’s vitals?” she asked immediately.

“Mister Stark requires sleep, but otherwise is in good health,” JARVIS said.

“I came down to ask if you’ll try to track him,” Clint said.  “He can’t stop you from tracking his phone if it’s always on, can he?  Isn’t that how he communicates with JARVIS?”

Talia sighed.

“I’ve tried,” she said.  “I’ll try again if you want.  But in the past JARVIS has always blocked me from tracking Tony.”

“JARVIS, you can’t look the other way for a minute?” Clint asked.

“I cannot, Mister Barton,” JARVIS said.  “I continue to monitor Mister Stark’s health, and I will contact you immediately should he require help.”

“Ain’t there an Agatha Christie like this?” James asked.  “I can’t decide if being the odd man out makes me more or less likely to get the axe next.”

“Neither Steve nor Tony is dead,” Talia told him.  He looked at her calmly for a long moment.

“Well, if JARVIS can be believed, we know Tony ain’t,” he said.  “All we know about Steve is:  a phone with a number we got off Sam Wilson’s fridge was in Chicago for a week, Minneapolis for a day, and then gone.  And that was what?  Three weeks ago?  We don’t even know for sure that was Steve.”

“That’s not all we know,” Bruce said suddenly.  “When Tony’s in the lab or his workshop, he gets calls from a very select group of people.  Us.  Pepper.  Rhodey.  The President.  But we can eliminate a lot of those people.”

Talia nodded.  “None of us in this room, and not Thor,” she said.  “Not Pepper.”

“So it was the President, or it was Rhodey, or…” Clint said.

“Or it was Steve,” she said.

“I don’t know if I feel better or worse about that,” Bruce said.  “I don’t like to think about why Steve would call Tony in such a state that Tony tells him to calm down and then runs out the door.  On the other hand, we might finally have found Steve.”

“Or lost Tony,” Clint said.  He rubbed his forehead.  “Now I know why Tony’s been cranky for the last month.  This is stressful.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 22 included a time skip of a couple weeks, and the end of this chapter (I hope you realized) takes place April 7th--two days after Tony has rushed off to Steve's rescue. So our timelines have closed a bit, though there's still a gap of about a week between them.
> 
> I hope that will help those of you who like to keep an eye on how things line up, but that's not really why I'm pointing this out.
> 
> A contingent of readers have become increasingly fed up with Bucky's poor behavior. As I have been spending so much time on the road, I haven't had the opportunity I would like to respond to comments. (Yet. I'll get there.) But I wanted to respond to this strand of thought _generally_ , and you can find those thoughts [here](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/95009433973/unreliable-narrators-are-awesomesauce-and-how-to-tell) on my tumblr.
> 
> I'll also say this. It's been five weeks since Steve disappeared, people; and Bucky still doesn't know why. That's thousands of generations to blowflies, but in the life of an adult human, five weeks isn't that much time. Expecting Bucky's behavior to change without the impetus or understanding to do it--or the kick in the pants Steve got... There needs to be something inciting that change.
> 
> I _beg_ you: read critically, lest my Inner English Teacher take over my life (and this story!), because I don't _want_ to write mini-essays to accompany each chapter, but she is a Ranting Bitch and I can't always control her.
> 
> It's a lot like Bruce and the Hulk, actually.
> 
> And the next two chapters are Bucky-centric, and we'll be going a little (a lot) deeper into his head--and I'd like y'all to have a good grasp on who he is before we get there...


	24. Big Sister is Watching

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much to say today...
> 
> I went back to chapter 21, "Caught in the Act," and edited a couple paragraphs to fix that timeline problem I wrote myself into. If you just want to see the changes without having to reread the entire chapter, go [here.](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/95691172073/changes-made-to-ch-21-of-like-a-cruel-mistress-woos)
> 
> Also, for those who are interested, there's a mini-meta on my tumblr (posted as a response to some of the comments on the previous chapter): [Unreliable Narrators are Awesomesauce and How to Tell if You're Dealing With One.](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/95009433973/unreliable-narrators-are-awesomesauce-and-how-to-tell)
> 
> And even if you aren't interested in either of those, go check out yesterday's posts; because I don't know what happened but tumblr had a _rock star_ day yesterday. Oh yeah, I know what happened: 
> 
> Anthony Mackie and Sebastian Stan accepted Chris Evans' ALS Ice Bucket Challenge  
> a shockingly gorgeous pic of Chris Evans in a suit went up actualmenacebuckybarnes suggested an idea for the _best post-Winter Soldier AU ever_ (seriously. Best EVER)  
>  there's going to be a Masked Ficathon--as in _leave the mask on_ (that's what it's called--Leave It On: A Masked Ficathon) AND  
>  Fan Meta Reader is looking for submissions. 
> 
> All in one day. *whew*

***

 

_April 7th-10th_

If Buck had thought Natasha was a little crazy before, with only Steve gone and a note to say why—with Tony gone too, possibly to wherever the hell Steve was, possibly not; contradictory leads as to why he’d left; and no fucking idea when either of them’d be back or any way to track them…  Now the crazy was really coming out.  She was not fucking joking about keeping all of them in sight.  Nick Fury had called Barton with an assignment, and Natasha had flat out told him to fuck right off.

“Find someone else to manipulate into doing your scut work,” she had said.  “I’m sick of it.  If Clint feels too guilty to say no, I have no problem saying it for him.  My circle’s getting picked off one by one.  This is not a good time to push me, Nick.  I will push back and I will push hard.”

Buck’d say one thing for Barton:  he wouldn’t have had the balls to take up with that woman permanently, but Barton seemed happy as a clam.  He almost seemed relieved that she’d screamed at Fury, which was more than Buck could say.  She was fucking scary when she was foaming at the mouth mad.

And even with fucking tracers all over every fucking thing Banner touched, she wasn’t happy if he wasn’t physically there where she could see him and touch him.  

“You should come down to the gym and spar with us,” she suggested.  “We could practice some self-defense exercises.”  She had the Little Bo Peep look on, which was a sure sign that she knew the shit she was trying to shovel stunk like a latrine in a swamp.

Banner raised an eyebrow at her.

“Self-defense?  Really?” he said.  “I think I’ll stick with yoga.  It’s better for my blood pressure.  And, you know, the walls.  The building—the neighborhood.  Nearby people.”

Her face went cool and distant, and she shrugged.

Buck for one was damn relieved.  Who the fuck wanted to wrestle the Hulk?

Then she wanted all of them to hang out in Banner’s lab.  Thank fuck Barton teamed up with Buck to veto that shit.

Finally she rigged up video cameras in Banner’s place, the gym, the lounge, the lobby, the elevator, the stairwells, and every other place she could think of; and she told Banner to say goodbye to any fucking privacy—JARVIS was going to be watching him every damn second of the day, and Natasha was going to be able to access the video feed whenever the fuck she wanted—and she was gonna be doing it, so he had better fucking accept he was going to have a fucking peeking Natasha all the damn time.

“I could be into that,” Buck said, but he was lying like a damn dog.  He might talk a big game but he kinda liked things simple and straightforward in the bedroom.  There was a damn reason some stuff was classic.

Banner looked at her with the phony smile he used when he was trying not to turn green and rip someone’s head off.  Damn, Buck lived with some scary fuckers.

“Don’t you think this is going overboard?” Banner asked.  “If I know you’re watching me, I’m going to be on edge; and none of us want me to be on edge.”

“Fine,” Natasha said.  “I won’t watch you.”

Banner just looked at her.  Yeah, she could lie so a guy believed every word out of that pretty mouth; but they all knew her, and Banner knew that was bullshit.

“You might think about moving in for a while,” Buck offered.  “At least I can jack off in the shower without a fucking spycam recording it.”

Natasha looked at Buck like he’d suddenly turned into Edison or something.

“That’s a good idea,” she said.

“Don’t look so fucking surprised,” Buck said.  “I have ‘em every once in a while.”

Banner shook his head, though.

“The Other Guy and I need more space than that,” he said.  “I’m sorry, Natasha.  But JARVIS can observe me when I’m in my apartments and give you verbal reports— _verbal_ reports only, and I don’t mind video feed when I’m in the lab or any public area.”

She narrowed her eyes and glared at him for a minute.

“Fine,” she said.  “But the minute JARVIS tells me something odd is happening on your floor, expect visitors.”

Banner nodded and slipped away—to his lab, Buck guessed.  Barton and Buck exchanged glances.  Yeah.  One damn scary woman.  Barton had balls of steel.  Buck shook his head, stirred a little more brown sugar into his oatmeal, and realized—

“That’s exactly what you wanted, isn’t it?” he asked.  “You set him up so he gave you what you wanted and he thought it was his damn idea.  Fucking hell.  You are one damn scary woman.”

“Thank you,” Natasha said.  She stood up and put her plate and coffee cup in the dishwasher, and turned back to him with her angel’s smile.  “And James—if you’re masturbating in the shower, I expect you to clean up after yourself when you’re done.  Are we clear?”

Buck saluted, and she left.  

Ah, fuck.  

With Banner gone and her gone, it was him and Barton at the table and that’s it.  It wasn’t a fucking secret that Barton hated him; so Buck had tried to avoid being alone with him, and so far he’d done it.  But now he had a plate of eggs and bacon and a full bowl of oatmeal and Barton had that weird shit Natasha made him eat, and they were fucking stuck.  Both of them concentrated on eating for a while; but it was too fucking tense, and Buck was getting nervous.

“So I figure it’s Banner or Natasha next,” he told Barton.  “Probably Banner, since Natasha’s got this whole elaborate setup to spy on him.  Unless I’ve jinxed myself by telling you.  Shit.  I probably did.  Ah, fuck.  It’s gonna be me for sure.”

Barton looked like he didn’t want to laugh but couldn’t help it.

“Look, Barnes,” he said.  “It’s not personal.”

“Fuck it’s not,” Buck said.  “I don’t blame you, though.  If I had a dame as great as Natasha and you tried to fuck her, I’d want to carve you up like a damn turkey.”

“That’s not it,” Barton said.

“Fuck it’s not,” Buck said.  “Like I said, I get it.”  Fuck.  He wasn’t hungry anymore, and that was just fucking strange.  He was always hungry.  He cleaned up the remains of his breakfast; and before he left, he turned to face Barton.  “I’ll stay out of your way as much as I can, okay?”

Barton’s face twisted up some, but he nodded; and Buck left.  Fuck, he missed Steve.  Just knowing he was around eased something in him, even if Buck couldn’t take being in the same room with him.

Wherever he was, he better be okay.  He almost hoped Tony had run off to help Steve with who-the-fuck-knew-what, because Tony was pretty good at taking care of shit.  Especially now that he was suiting up as Iron Man again.

He went down to the gym.  Might as well ruin a few punching bags while Natasha tuned into BruceBannerTV.

 Late that night, after Natasha and Barton slipped off to bed, Buck hesitantly stepped up to Barton’s crazy projection table.

“JARVIS?” he asked.  “You’d tell us if Tony found Steve and he was in trouble, right?

“If I am aware of anything any of the Avengers can do to help either Mister Stark or Captain Rogers, I will inform you immediately,” JARVIS said.  

“Okay,” Buck said.  “Thanks.”  He paused for a minute.  “Could I see that map of the U.S. Natasha was looking at a couple weeks ago?  The one with all the cities and tourist attractions?”

The map materialized on the table.  Buck looked it over for a while.

“Could you color code some of these places for me?” he asked.  “Like—the top art museums in the country all in blue?  Top twenty a dark blue, and the next twenty a lighter blue, and go on down to—say, a hundred of ‘em?”

“Of course, Mister Barnes,” JARVIS said.  “What parameters shall I use to determine precedence?”

“How do you mean?” Buck asked.

“How shall I evaluate the museums to rank them in order from top to bottom?” JARVIS clarified.

“Oh,” Buck said.  “Shit.  Okay.  The size and importance of the collection—collate the lists and articles and shit you can find about that.  Weight the experts heavier than the stupid “Our Awesome Summer Vacation” blogs.  Maybe cut out all that shit.  Just the expert opinions.”  He rubbed his forehead.

“In cities with multiple museums, would you like me to list the museums next to the city in order of importance?  Or indicate the number of museums by the size of the indicator?” JARVIS asked.

“Yeah,” he said.  “That’s a good idea.  Do both of those.  And then let’s do the same thing for places with historical significance—in red, I guess.  And national parks and other natural shit in green?”

“Of course, Mister Barnes,” JARVIS replied.  “May I suggest that cities which fit more than one category be displayed as a bullseye, with the least significant category in the center?”

Buck couldn’t tell if he was imagining the sympathetic tone to JARVIS’ voice or not.  Probably.  JARVIS was some kind of fucking super-advanced computer.  Computers couldn’t have feelings any more than Winter fucking Soldiers did.

“Yeah,” he said.  “That’s smart.”  He paused.  “Okay.  Let’s see what we got.”  The map altered to reflect the color coding Buck had asked for.  The whole damn table lit up with polka dots, ranging in size from tiny, lightly shaded dots to huge, dark, triple-layer bullseyes.

“Ah, fuck,” Buck said.  “Okay.  Can you lay out some roads on this thing for me?  And highlight the best route to the places we know Steve went—from New York to Chicago and then to Minneapolis.  Maybe give me a couple options.”

He and JARVIS worked on the damn thing until Buck’s eyes started to burn.  He asked JARVIS to save it and went to bed, but he didn’t fall asleep right away.  Steve had been gone five fucking weeks now.  Five fucking weeks.  Buck was gonna kill him when he got back for scaring them like this.

He hoped Tony was with him.  He kept seeing Steve’s limp body sinking down in the murky waters of the Potomac, playing again and again on the backs of his eyelids.  And his eyes, as he faced the Winter Soldier across a bridge on the Helicarrier…  When did Steve’s eyes get so fucking sad?  He couldn’t remember.  Had they been like that sometimes, even back in Brooklyn?  Or in Europe, maybe, once he saw what war was like?  Was that something that happened only after he came out of the Arctic ice?

When the fuck did he stop being smart aleck Steve Rogers and turn into grim Captain America?  He couldn’t remember that, either.  Fuck his fucking Swiss cheese memory.  Had the serum done that to him?

Had Bucky?

***

Buck and JARVIS spent two more days working on the map whenever Natasha and Barton weren’t around.  Buck was learning all kinds of shit about the United States, but he still had no idea where Steve had gone after Minneapolis if it hadn’t been Mount Rushmore.  There were too many options.

And it had been three weeks since they were last able to trace him.  He could be anywhere.  He could have got to fucking Santiago by now.

The next day he had an appointment with Doc in the afternoon.  Natasha made him swear to go there and come right back with no stops.

“Not even for a cup of coffee?” Buck asked.  “Give me a damn break, would you?  I’m not going to fucking vanish.”

Barton’s mouth quirked.  Bucky faked a stagger backwards.

“Fuck, you’re right!” he said.  “I jinxed myself again.  I’m the sad bastard who says he’s only got a month left before his enlistment is up!”  He turned back to Natasha.  “Talia!  You gotta come with me!  It’s my only fucking hope!”

“Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Barton murmured.  “You’re my only hope.”

Natasha and Buck both turned to stare at him.

“I feel like someone should be throwing around movie references,” Barton said.  “And since Tony’s the one who does it, and he left me in charge…”

“He did not leave you in charge of stupid smart ass comments,” Natasha said.

“Well, was it a stupid ass comment or a smart ass comment?” Buck asked.  “‘Cause I don’t fucking see how it can be both.”   Barton’s mouth quirked again, and Buck narrowed his eyes at him.  “And Steve may not mind the reminder that he’s missed seventy fucking years of books, movies, music, and fucking everything else; but it fucking pisses me off.  It’s a shitty thing to do.”

Barton’s smile faded.

“Is it really like that?” he asked.  Buck just looked at him.

“Nah,” he said.  “I love it when everybody in the damn room gets the joke except for me.  Makes my fucking day.”  He slammed out of the room without bothering to say goodbye or promising that he’d “come right back without a single stop.”

And that was fine, because Buck didn’t mind lying when he had to; but Natasha was fucking sharp and she might catch it—and he wasn’t fucking planning on coming right fucking back without a single fucking stop.

Usually he and Doc worked on “recovering memories associated with his trauma history” and “unifying his alternate identities with the goal of integrated functioning”—which meant Doc used hypnosis to try to help him _remember_ the fucking hell that Zola put him through when anyone _sane_ would want to forget every fucking second of it, then talked him through trying to sew “Buck” and “Bucky” and “the Winter Soldier” together like Frankenstein’s fucking monster.

He was nervous about his plans, which was why he was armed the way he was and wearing combat gear outside of Avengers Tower.  Usually he tried not to create a fucking mass panic on the island of Manhattan.  But it was a short trip to Doc’s; and he had JARVIS take him in one of Tony’s cars, so he wasn’t on the street long.

Doc raised an eyebrow when she saw him.

“Good afternoon, Buck,” she said.  “Or am I speaking to the Winter Soldier?”

“It’s Buck,” he said.  “But I got a problem, and I think we might need him to solve it.”

She nodded.

“Come in; sit down,” she said.  “Tell me what you want to do today.”

Buck took a deep breath and told her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I am not any kind of expert in Dissociative Identity Disorder--please don't assume that I am! Nor is my goal to create in Bucky a character who can be taken as a realistic model of what DID looks like in a real live person. I have taken liberties with the way I portray Dissociative Identity Disorder in this story--and because I'm _not_ an expert, I could be wrong.
> 
> It's been known to happen.
> 
> I have, however, tried to be as accurate as I can in my description of the psychiatric treatment of DID--as much as I can without a psychiatrist's training or having gone through the experience myself. I appreciate your patience and feedback!


	25. The Winter Soldier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank everyone for their comments on chapter 24, especially M for their insight into DID and various ways it's likely to present as well as the "best practice" therapeutic approach. I hope Doc's thinking meets your approval, M! Either way, I'd be interested in hearing more.

***

 

_April 10th_

If he wanted proof that he was fucking crazy, this was fucking it:  Buck was going to see if Doc could help him knock a few memories loose.  Not Bucky memories.  Not even fucking Zola memories.

Winter Soldier memories.

‘Cause Stark might forbid JARVIS from helping and Natasha might not be able to access S.H.I.E.L.D. resources anymore, but Buck was pretty damn sure there was a Hydra base hidden in the New York City area and—he didn’t know.  Five bolt holes?  Maybe more.  And maybe he’d find something useful in one of them.

Or maybe someone.

That was the part that had him sweating.  He could kill anyone he found, but that would alert other Hydra agents; and while he was damn sure they were coming after him eventually, he’d rather “eventually” come later instead of sooner.  If they thought the Winter Soldier was gunning for them, they’d try to take him out first.

He couldn’t—well, yeah, he could fucking _blame_ them; but he understood why.  If the Winter fucking Soldier were coming for him, he’d run like a dog.  But since the Winter Soldier lived in his own damn brain, there wasn’t any damn place for Buck to run.

Ah, fuck.  This was so fucking crazy.  He was terrified that Hydra was going to get their hands on him and bring back the Winter Soldier, and he was asking Doc to do it out of his own free will; and then he was gonna walk right into the fucking snake pit.

Fuck Steve for disappearing without a word for five fucking weeks.  And fuck him for giving a damn.

He sat in his chair and Doc sat in hers, that unflappable look on her face.  That was what Buck liked best about Doc.  She was always calm, no matter what crazy shit Buck pulled.  Even the first time she pulled up the Winter Soldier—she’d nodded thoughtfully and introduced herself again like Buck had never fucking met her.  Which he guessed the Winter Soldier hadn’t, really.

“I have a mission,” the Winter Soldier had told her.

“Would you like to tell me about it?” she’d asked.

“Fuck that,” Buck had clawed up enough to gasp out, but then the Winter Soldier was on top again.

“Don’t interfere with it,” he had told her.

“There seems to be some internal disagreement about the mission,” Doc had replied.  “I suspect that will be a greater obstacle to completing it than anything I might do.”

The Winter Soldier had stared at her.  Buck didn’t know if Doc knew how close she’d been to dying in that moment, and he didn’t fucking ask.  He didn’t want to scare her if she didn’t.

“I don’t know very much about you,” Doc had said.  “Is there anything you’d like to tell me?”

“I have a mission,” the Winter Soldier repeated.

“That’s important to you,” she said, and the Winter Soldier stared.  Buck could feel his confusion merge with Buck’s, just for a moment.  After a minute, the Winter Soldier nodded.

“I’ve shaped the century,” he said.

“What does that mean to you?” Doc asked.

And she’d just fucking kept on like that until the Winter Soldier was so perplexed he’d backed off and Buck could take over again.

“What the fucking fuck was that?” he asked.  Looking back on it, he might have been a little loud.  And he might have broke one or two of her pottery doodads sweeping a shelf clean.

“Repression is not our goal—” she’d said.

“It damn straight is!” Buck had yelled.

“And attempting it would be unproductive in the end,” she’d added.  “Our therapeutic goal is integrated functioning of the alternate identities.”

“And that means fucking what?” Buck said.

“That you, and the Winter Soldier, and any other alternates who may emerge learn to function effectively together,” she said.  “Some therapists believe that complete unification is the ultimate end of this process.  I believe we should consider our goals on a short term basis, with regular reevaluation and adjustment.  Say, every four months we discuss our progress and decide what our aims are for the next term.  Complete fusion may not be necessary, and some patients decide that is an undesirable outcome.”

Buck shook his head.

“Does that clarify anything?” Doc had asked.

“Yeah,” Buck said.  “It means you think me and the Winter Soldier—and maybe a bunch more fuckers who could be hiding in my head that we ain’t met yet—are going to hold fucking hands and skip through the fucking tulips; and maybe we’ll decide we’re the same damn person again like Zola never happened, and maybe we’ll decide we’re all going to share my head like one happy fucking family.  That is _not_ what is going to happen; and if you think anybody but me has any say in that, I’m walking out that door right now and I’m never coming back.  I want the Winter fucking Soldier _gone._   I want him out of my fucking head. ”

“Essentially, yes,” Doc had said.  “What I don’t think you understand is this, Buck:  there’s no getting rid of the Winter Soldier.  You can’t kill him.  You can’t remove him.  He and you—and yes, any other ‘fuckers’ who might be ‘hiding in your head’—are going to have to work together if you want the status quo to change.”

Buck didn’t know what to think about that.

“Buck?” Doc had asked.

“Steve’s not safe,” Bucky had whispered.  “Steve’s not safe as long as the Winter Soldier’s around.”

“Steve’s important to you,” Doc had said.

“Steve’s my friend,” Bucky told her.  “I gotta keep him safe.”

“He’s my mission,” the Winter Soldier said.

“He saved your fucking life!” Buck yelled.  “You don’t touch him!”  He exhaled hard.  “You hear me?  You try to touch him, and I will take you down, you fucking murderer.  Try to complete your fucking mission then, motherfucker.”

The office was quiet while the Winter Soldier thought about that.

“I have a suggestion,” Doc said.  “One that I think is in everyone’s best interests, and that could be our first step in integrating functionality.”

They looked at her.

“What?” Buck asked.

“In a situation like this, it is often beneficial to create a ‘safety agreement,’” Doc said.  “A pledge each alternate identity agrees to in order to guarantee the safety of the patient and others.  As this is our first agreement, I believe a time limit might be helpful.  A trial run, so to speak.”

“What kind of pledge?” Buck asked.

“Are there other alternates who should also be consulted?” Doc had asked.  “Buck and the Winter Soldier I have met; but are there others either of you are aware of?”

Buck was silent.  He had nothing to say.

“Bucky,” the Winter Soldier answered slowly.  Trust that fucker not to care about keeping Bucky safe.

Doc nodded.  “Would Bucky like to say anything at this time?”

Bucky shook his head.

“All right,” Doc said.  “This is my proposal.  The Winter Soldier will pledge not to harm Steve in any way in the next two weeks, and Buck will pledge not to commit suicide for those same two weeks.  And Bucky will do the same.”

“I don’t want to die,” Bucky whispered.  The Winter Soldier kept his mouth shut, and Buck thought about it.

“That means not Captain America, too,” he said.  “The Winter Soldier has to agree there ain’t any fucking loopholes like that.  And he can’t kill anybody else.  Not any of the Avengers.  Not the asshole who always texts on the way to work instead of fucking looking where he’s going when he walks past Avengers Tower every damn fucking day.  No one.”

“What if someone attacks me?” the Winter Soldier asked.  Buck thought about that.

“You can disable,” he answered.  “Minimum force.  Except for Hydra—you can rip those motherfuckers’ guts out and choke them with ‘em.  Fuck, I’ll help.”  He paused.  “And sparring doesn’t count as an attack.  If you can’t spar without causing permanent damage, don’t spar.”

“Is that something every alternate can agree to?” Doc had asked.

The Winter Soldier nodded.

“I’m sorry,” Doc said.  “I’m unable to tell who is moving your body.  Could you identify yourself and confirm your agreement verbally?”

“Winter Soldier,” he said.  “I agree.”

“He better not even think about it,” Buck said.  “He starts thinking strategy, he starts making a plan, all bets are off.”

“Agreed,” the Winter Soldier said.

“Fine,” Buck said.  “Me too.  I’m Buck.”

“Thank you both,” Doc said.  “Bucky?  Do you agree?”

Bucky nodded.

“Can you identify yourself and signal your agreement verbally?” Doc asked.

“It’s him, okay?” Buck said.  “Back off, Doc.”

“I’m sorry,” Doc said.  “I need agreement that I can recognize as coming from him.”

Bucky shook his head.

“This is hard for you,” Doc said.  Bucky nodded.  “Take your time.”  

He did.

Fuck, did he ever take his time.  They sat there for twelve silent minutes, and Buck knew ‘cause he was watching the clock.

“Bucky:  James Buchanan Barnes,” Bucky finally whispered.  “Sergeant.  Three two five five seven zero three eight.  I agree.”

They’d remade that agreement four times.  The time before last, they’d upped the time limit to a month.  Then last time they were back to two weeks.  Steve’s disappearance had panicked the Winter Soldier, who was afraid he wouldn’t be able to complete his fucking mission.  He wasn’t willing to commit to anything longer than that.  Fucker.  _My work has been a gift to mankind.  I shaped the century._  

Like that was a good thing.

And now Buck was about to turn over to him willingly, with only two days left in the safety agreement.  He was fucking insane.

 

***

 

He left Doc’s office with a list of eight targets.  It wasn’t complete, but it was a place to start.

He was less certain that he’d find any Hydra resources that could assist in the hunt for Steve.  Buck thought it was a possibility, though; and he lost nothing in looking.  Either way allowing Hydra to remain unmolested in their bolt holes was inadvisable.  He wasn’t leaving them at his back.

That was only sound tactics, but it wasn’t his only motivation.  He was looking forward to slicing them open.  “Ripping those motherfuckers’ guts out and choking them with ‘em.”  Hydra deserved everything he could deliver.  They’d get it.

He walked over to the coffee shop on Sixteenth Street, bought a latte, and sat with his back to the wall while he mulled over his options.

Of the eight Hydra hideouts in the New York City area that he knew of, the LaGuardia-Rikers Island complex was the toughest target—likeliest to have a full contingent of agents, and made up of a tangled mess of corridors and passageways.  There were too many exits.  Too many witnesses.  Too many opportunities to be ambushed or trapped.  The Winter Soldier had been to it before, but only once that he could remember.  He’d seen a schematic of the complex—that would help, as long as Hydra hadn’t changed it much since then.

He wasn’t sure when it had been.  It could have been one year ago or twenty.  But having seen the layout of that map—it was more intelligence than anyone else outside of Hydra would have.

But no matter how high the quality of his intel was, it wouldn’t matter if they had warning.  If they knew he was coming, he’d be dead or captured when he walked in the door.

So it wasn’t a hard decision in the end.  The smaller bolt holes could be left for a while.  He’d go after LaGuardia-Rikers first, and that would require additional resources and more of a plan than could be scribbled on a paper napkin.  He left his untouched coffee on the table and walked back to Avengers Tower; and as he walked, he considered his strategy.

If Hydra were smart, they’d predict that he’d attack them sooner or later.  If not him, someone—the Avengers, or a rebuilding S.H.I.E.L.D.  And Hydra was canny.  Their system of hiding while growing and spreading had led to an undetected infiltration of S.H.I.E.L.D.  They had thrived by hiding inside their strongest enemy and turning it against itself.

Individually, without a leader:  Hydra was only as strong as each member.  Alone each Hydra cell was nothing.  The writhing, seething mass of corruption they formed when together?  That was formidable.

Where had the budding knots gathered together to grow strongest?  He needed to know that _before_ he could take on a complex like LaGuardia-Rikers, and he wasn’t going to be able to learn it _unless_ he took on LaGuardia-Rikers—or something like it.

He could go elsewhere.  Find another nucleus—one with a more vulnerable flank and fewer escapes.  New York and Washington DC seemed the likeliest locations for a principal nodule to form.  There were logical arguments for returning to D.C. and searching there.  DC was more likely to be affected by the chaos of the Black Widow outing Hydra’s presence within S.H.I.E.L.D.

On the other hand, he was already in New York.  Bucky had grown up in Brooklyn, and he lived in Avengers Tower in the heart of Manhattan.  He didn’t have any plans to leave the city unless it was necessary—to survive, or to find Steve Rogers.  Hydra could find another base.  New York was his.


	26. Tree Hugging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Tony leave Wyoming for San Francisco.

***

 

_April 14th-16th_

San Francisco was on the list of places Steve wanted to go, but it was because of the Golden Gate Bridge and the art museums, not the largest gay neighborhood in the United States and more gay bars than Starbucks coffee shops.

And he was a little nervous about it, because it hadn’t taken Jeff more than twenty minutes after they’d shared a celebratory smoke to talk him into laying back on the table and letting him—  Letting him do what he did.

Steve couldn’t even think the words for what Jeff had done, and his body still twitched remembering how good it was.  He was in a load of trouble.

And he had to be some kind of—  He didn’t know if he was just weak, or if it was because of his lack of experience; but either way he was afraid he was going to go with the first guy who tried him without a second thought, and…

Who knew what he would do?

It was the only reason he was letting Tony come along; because this was sure to be the most embarrassing experience of Steve’s life, and no one would get as much mileage from it.  But Tony would stop him if he was out of control.

And Sam—he would understand how hard this was going to be for Steve, and he would respect Steve’s wishes about how far he was willing to go before he wanted to be stopped.

But first he was going to have to get there without killing Tony Stark.

“I’m not shipping my bike to San Francisco,” he said.  “I’m planning to ride.  That’s why they call it a _road_ trip.”

“It’s going to take you fourteen hours to make that trip,” Tony said.

“It’s going to take me three days,” Steve told him.  “Just in time to meet Sam’s flight.  I’ve got my route planned, made my reservations—I’m all set.”

“When did you do that?” Tony asked.  “Last night you were curled up in the fetal position on your bed.”

“I wake up early,” Steve said.  “Always have.  And you apparently sleep half the day away.”

“Getting out of bed at 9:30 is not ‘sleeping half the day away,’” Tony said.  “You better not expect me to come with you.”

“Nope,” Steve said.  “Figured you’d fly ahead to San Francisco.  Maybe spend a couple days with Pepper first.”

Tony crossed his arms and glared at Steve.

“I can handle the wilderness,” he said.  “But why should I if I don’t have to?”

“You don’t,” Steve said.  “I’ll be fine.  City boy.”

“Like you’re one to talk, Brooklyn,” Tony replied.  Steve’s throat tightened to hear Hansen’s nickname for him, but he set his jaw and put it aside.  Tony wasn’t done, though.  

“You are such a stubborn cuss,” he said, shaking his head.  “Let’s hear this itinerary of yours.”

Steve shook his head and pulled out his map.

“What is this?” Tony asked.  “Did you _draw_ this?”

“Yep,” Steve said.  “Looked at Google Maps, read the directions, and drew this while you were lazing around in bed.  Went for a run and a quick swim, too.”

“You are not planning on staying in something called a _yurt-style cabin_ ,” Tony said.  “Where is this, even?  There’s nothing but trees on this.”

“Deschutes National Forest,” Steve said.  “It’s supposed to be pretty.”

“Deschutes National—“ Tony said.  “When I said wilderness, I meant Salt Lake City!”

“Well, I meant National Forests,” Steve told him.

“Forest _s_?” Tony asked.  He looked at the map again.  “Redwood National Forest.  Is there a forest along the route we’re skipping?  Maybe we should take a month.  We could hug every tree in the Northwest.”

“There are lots,” Steve said.  “I should have told Sam to meet us in a week; but since I said three days, I’ll make do with these two.”

“There had better not be grizzlies,” Tony said.  “One whiff of grizzly bear and I’m picking you up by the belt loops and flying straight to San Francisco.”

“I’ll behave myself around any bears,” Steve said.  “Promise.”

“Well, only until we get to the Castro,” Tony said.  “Any bears you meet there that you like, I won’t interfere.  As long as they pass the screening.”  He paused.  “What is a _Woodland Villa Cabin #12_?  How do the words ‘villa’ and ‘cabin’ even go in the same sentence?”

 

***

 

The cabin Steve had reserved in Deschutes National Forest slept four, but it didn’t have power, running water, or sheets for the beds.  After the uncomfortable stay in that ridiculous mansion Tony thought was reasonable, the horror on his face at Steve’s choice of accommodations was immensely satisfying; but after a minute Steve relented, cancelled his reservation there, and let Tony book a hotel for the night.

“I have a cabin reserved at Redwood National Forest, too; and I don’t know what you’re doing, but I’m staying in it,” he told Tony.  “You’re welcome to stay; there’ll be room.  But no complaints.”

“How big is this cabin?” Tony asked.  “Cabin suggests all kinds of things I don’t like in my lodging.  One small, dark room with a mousetrap of a bed—or maybe just a mattress on the floor.”  He narrowed his eyes.  “We are _not_ sharing a bed.”

“No, you can have the bed,” Steve said.  “I’ll take the rollaway.”  The corner of his mouth twitched a little at the look on Tony’s face at the word _rollaway_.  “You don’t think you’re overreacting?  What about that cave in Afghanistan?  That had to be pretty rough.”

“I was a prisoner,” Tony said.  “I wasn’t given a choice.  You’re doing this _voluntarily_.”

“Next time I think I’ll try camping, even,” Steve said.  “I might have to get a better touring bike, though.  I don’t have a lot of storage on this one.  Maybe a trailer.”

Tony just shook his head.

It was nice to have some quiet time on the road after living with Tony and Jeff for a week.  Tony especially—he was a good guy; but he and Steve hadn’t had a great start when they first met, and with the constant joking…Tony could be abrasive.  Steve had missed having time alone to think.  He’d had a lot to think about lately.

He shied away from thinking about Jeff for the moment.  The whole thing was mortifying—what he’d done, that Tony had seen it.  It didn’t matter how lonely he was.  There wasn’t an excuse for—for that.

After a couple of hours, Iron Man swooped down to pace Steve as he rode.

“I thought you were flying ahead,” Steve yelled.  If Tony could hear him over the noise of the motor, he ignored it.  After a minute, Steve shrugged and raised a hand in quick greeting.  Looked like he had company for this leg of the trip after all.

Tony didn’t chatter, though; so Steve felt free to ignore him.  It was nearly as good as having the road to himself.  And the reactions from the occasional passers by were pretty funny—the rubber-necking and braking and swerving.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t safe.  More than one car nearly ran off the road because Iron Man distracted the driver.  After the fourth one, Steve pulled over.

“Take off the suit and get on,” he said.  “Somebody’s gonna get killed ‘cause they were watching you instead of the road.”

Tony’s face…He looked like Steve had suggested he walk to San Francisco.

“Either go ahead or get on,” Steve said.  “You’re gonna cause a wreck.”

Tony pouted, but he got on the bike.  Steve took an evil pleasure in popping a wheelie as he took off.

Tony whooped and yelled for Steve to do it again.  Steve smiled.  He wasn’t such a bad guy, Tony.  He could be pretty fun.  

Mostly when he wasn’t talking.

They arrived at Bend, Oregon after dark, and despite Tony’s protests left again at dawn; so Steve didn’t see much of Deschutes National Forest.  He promised himself he’d come back another time. But he had to be in San Francisco in two days, and he wanted to see as much of Redwood as he could.

And when they got there, he was glad they’d done it that way; because Redwood National Park…

It was…  He didn’t have words to explain what it was.

The trees, the fog—  Everything.  Everything in the entire park.

It was exactly the same and exactly opposite of that night in the Badlands.  There was the same sense that the land could swallow him up—like it was so much larger than he was, and not just in the scale of the trees.  But it was such a lush green, and with the cool curtain of fog—in that way it couldn’t be more different from the starkness of the Badlands under a blood moon.  It was—it was old, but it was soft.  More welcoming than wild.

Tony seemed as stunned as he was.  Steve’d been prepared to have to tune out all kinds of complaints about nature and tree hugging and the joys of pavement, but he didn’t have to.  Wherever Steve wanted to go in the park, Tony followed along without a word.  Steve had been wrong about Tony.  Seemed like he could appreciate the simple things after all.

He changed his mind back again when they got to their hotel in San Francisco.

“You have got to be joking,” he said.  “We aren’t staying here.”

“You picked the last place we stayed,” Tony said.  “Here we don’t have to share a room, and I don’t think they even allow the word ‘rollaway.’”

“I slept on it, not you!” Steve exclaimed.

“It contaminated the air,” Tony said.  “Now hurry up.  Sam’s flight gets in at 8:15; and if you want to meet him, we need to catch a taxi.  Unless you want Iron Man to give you a ride, which is not exactly low profile.” 

“Thanks,” Steve said.  “I’ll take a taxi.  Do me a favor:  you wait here.”

It was great to see Sam again, and Steve was gratified that his reaction to the hotel was a shock similar to Steve’s.

Then he grinned.

“This is the life!” he said.  “You should have sexual orientation crises more often.  I hear Miami’s got a great gay scene.  London, Berlin, Rio—wherever you want to go dancing.  I’m in.”

“I don’t dance,” Steve said.  “And Tony picked the hotel.”

Sam frowned at him.

“You’re a little grumpy for a guy who should be excited,” he said.  “Nervous, sure—but definitely excited.  You sure you want to do this?  New York isn’t a bad place to be gay, either.  You can take it at your own pace.”

“No, I do,” Steve said.  “I need to get this over with, and I’m not gonna be ready to go back to New York until I have some idea how to live with this.”

“That’s not the best reason I’ve heard for putting yourself out there,” Sam said.  “Maybe you need to take a step back before you dive into some kind of big gay orgy.”

“Why do people keep assuming there’s going to be a ‘big gay orgy?’” Steve asked.  “There’s not going to be any orgies.  I’m not sure if there’s going to be kissing, even.  I just want to see how I fit this in.  And I figure there’re a lot a guys here who’ve had the same questions I have.  So maybe I can pick up a little advice along the way.”  He shook his head.  “Part of me can’t believe I’m gonna do this at all.  This is not the kind of thing I’m good at.”  He looked at Sam’s warm, worried face; and the corner of his mouth lifted.  “Thanks for coming.”

“Always,” Sam said.  “Anytime.”  He smiled that gorgeous smile of his, and some of Steve’s tension slipped away.  

It was going to be all right.  Sam had his back.

“You want to meet Tony tonight, or in the morning?” Steve asked.  “I hope you brought your wings, because he’s been asking about them.  And fair warning:  he is unbearable when he’s bored.  He needs something to tinker on.”

“Let’s meet the man tonight,” Sam replied.  “Iron Man—he’s kind of a hero of mine.”

Steve stopped walking.

“You have got to be kidding me,” he said.

“The man built his own suit out of junkyard trash and a tuning fork,” Sam said.  “You have to admire that.”

“You and Tony Stark getting along,” Steve said.  “And me, doing—doing this.  Every day in the future is crazier than the one before.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On my trip last month, I saw [the perfect Cap touring motorcycle](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/97062912963/next-time-i-think-ill-try-camping-even-steve)\--in my head canon, it's Tony's next birthday present for Steve.
> 
> And [here's](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/97062920453/redwoods-national-forest) a picture of the redwoods (although the sense of being there is just as impossible to capture as the Badlands, I think the beauty comes through).


	27. San Francisco Days

***

 

_April 17th_

Their first full day in San Francisco started as a tug of war between Tony and Steve, with Sam as amused observer.

“So what are we doing today?” he asked at breakfast.

“Explore the Castro,” Tony said, at the same time as Steve said “The de Young Museum.” 

“And Golden Gate Park, while we’re there,” Steve added, glaring at Tony.

Tony tilted his head to the side, pulled out his Starkpad, and typed something in.

“Sure,” he said.  “The two of you do that.  I’ve got some things to pull together today.  I’ll meet you for dinner.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed as he looked warily at Tony.

“I thought we could try a run there tomorrow morning,” he told Sam.  “Since this guy sleeps in every day.”

Sam nodded.  “A run sounds good,” he said.  “You have a route planned out—something I can loop around a couple times while you do a couple hundred laps?”

“You’re not even gonna try to keep up?” Steve asked.  “This ankle’s still slowing me down some.”

Sam laughed.

“I see how it’s gonna be,” he said.  “All right.  Bring it on.”

“But I want to be done by eight so I can go to Mass,” Steve said.  “There’s a church here I’d like to try.”

Tony rolled his eyes.

“This guy,” he said to Sam.  “Did you know how much this guy went to church?”

“Can’t say it ever came up,” Sam said.

“Leave it, okay?” Steve said.  “I’ve had a lot of need lately.”

Tony looked at him for a few moments before handing Steve his Starkpad.

“Show me the church’s website,” he said.  “Anything on your agenda—Sam goes with you, or I go with you, or you get prior approval, Gramps.”

Steve glared at Tony, but he typed Most Holy Redeemer’s url into Tony’s browser window and handed the Starkpad back.  Tony clicked around a little before nodding.

“That gets the Stark Seal of Approval,” he said.  “You’re good.”

Sam looked from Tony to Steve and back again.

“You gonna tell me what’s going on?” he asked.  “I feel like I’ve missed a few plays.”

Steve bit his lip.  He was going to have to explain it to Sam, but he wasn’t looking forward to it.  Tony saved him.

“Tonight,” he said.  “We’ve got plans for tonight—and a nice private place to talk.  And we have plans Saturday night too, so don’t make any dates.”

“How can we have plans already?” Steve asked.  “We just got here.”

“I made some calls while you picked up Flyboy from the airport,” Tony replied.  “Saturday night, you are taking San Francisco by storm.”

“You’re scaring me again,” Steve said.

“Have no fear, Capsicle,” Tony said.  “Sam and I got your back.”

“That’s only half reassuring,” Steve said.

“You’ll see,” Tony said.  “Now get out of here.  Go look at art.”

Steve watched Tony for a minute, but Tony ignored him, humming innocently and poking at his Starkpad.  He gave in.

“You ready, Sam?” he asked.

“Always,” Sam replied.

Art museums weren’t much more Sam’s thing than Hansen’s; but he was easygoing and curious, so he made a pretty good companion to explore the de Young with.

“Anything in particular you want to see?” Steve asked him.

“What’s the difference between ‘American Paintings’ and ‘Art of the Americas’?” Sam asked.

“Let’s find out,” Steve said.  “Anything else?”

“African Art,” he said.

“That’s enough to keep us out of trouble for a while,” Steve said.  “Well.  To keep me out of trouble.  I don’t know about you.”

Sam raised an eyebrow at him.

“Are you really trying that on?” he said.  “I’ve got news for you about who’s been trouble lately.”

Steve shook his head.

“Yeah,” he said.  “I know.”

“You ready to talk about it?” Sam asked.

Steve shook his head.  “Tonight,” he said.  “Tony said he had somewhere private for us to go—private would be good.”

Sam nodded, and Steve looked at the map of the museum before leading the way to the Art of the Americas gallery.

Tony’s ‘nice private place to talk’ turned out to be a yacht he’d rented for the evening.  They went out into the bay and watched the lights of the city grow brighter as twilight fell.  A light drizzle was falling—enough to dew up on a guy’s hair, but not enough to seep through his clothes.  It was more of a mist, really—not quite thick enough to be fog, not heavy enough to be rain.  The city and the Golden Gate Bridge, lit up through this veil—it was magical:  a wonderland reflected in the swells of the bay, where it was muted and distorted like a childhood memory.

They ate the picnic dinner the hotel had packed for them, and Sam and Steve quizzed Tony about his mysterious “few things to pull together” while Tony stayed smugly mum about it.  As they were finishing up dinner, Tony pulled a small object out of his pocket and handed it to Steve.  Steve blinked.

Sam dropped his beer bottle.

“Did you just give _Captain America_ a _joint_?” he exclaimed.

“Just in case you wanted it,” Tony told Steve.  “Sam and I can get drunk—actually, Sam can get drunk; I have to drive back to the harbor.  But you can’t, and…  if it were me, I’d want to unwind a little before having this conversation.”

Steve looked at the hand-rolled cigarette in his hand.

“You got a light?” he said after a minute.  Tony handed him a pack of matches, and Steve lit up and inhaled deeply.

“What the hell kind of story _is_ this?” Sam asked.  “Because we’ve already talked about the sexual orientation crisis, so I’m having some trouble imagining where it could go from there that requires drugs.”

Steve exhaled.  “When we first met, you asked what made me happy,” he said.  “You remember?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, his eyes concerned.  “You worry about the ones who can’t list off at least a few things.  And you—you didn’t have any.  You said you didn’t know.”

“When I decided I needed to get out of New York, spend some time traveling,” Steve continued.  “I needed some peace in a pretty bad way.  But that wasn’t what pushed me out on the road.”  He took another long pull on his joint, and took his time exhaling.  “I’ve been struggling some ever since I was pulled out of the ice.  But the six months or so while Bucky was at the hospital and wouldn’t see me, and then after—when he wanted to move into the Tower instead of sharing a place with me, and he avoided me, and shut down when he couldn’t…That’s been hard to take.”  He closed his eyes and took another long drag.  The slap of the water on the hull of the boat was the only sound as Tony and Sam waited for him to continue.  “I overheard him tell Natasha he didn’t want me in my life.  He wasn’t my friend anymore, and he didn’t want to be.  I just—that stung.  I needed to get away.  Find a reason to keep going.  So I left.”

Sam nodded.  “I figured something had given you a push.”

“Yeah,” Steve said.  “That was it.”  That was the first part over.  He opened his mouth, closed it again, shook his head, and took another long pull on his joint.  Sam had taken it well when Steve told him about his bisexuality, but this…  

He wouldn’t condemn him.  The veterans Sam worked with every day—they were men and women like Steve, folks who needed help getting past the ways war had wounded them.  Some of them got as low as Steve had.  He suspected there had been soldiers Sam hadn’t been able to help—some that had succeeded in taking their lives.

It had taken less than five minutes of conversation for Steve to see that Sam was a guy worth knowing.  He respected Sam.  And it felt good to have Sam’s respect.  His willingness to follow where Steve led.  Captain America wasn’t all that Steve was, but he was an important part of it.  And Sam had known right from the start that Captain America was a soldier like any other who had lost things in war.  Who had come back from the war to find his home foreign.  Until Sam showed him, Steve hadn’t known himself that it wasn’t just because of his time under the ice.  Other vets felt that way when they returned to civilian life, too.

He was worried Sam wouldn’t look up to him after he knew.  Worried that Sam would see all the ways Steve was broken, and his respect would fall away.

He’d come this far, though—and whatever his reaction might be, Sam deserved to know the truth of how bad it had gotten for Steve.  

 He exhaled.

“I told you I wanted some peace,” he said.  “What I didn’t say was:  if I couldn’t find it—if I couldn’t find something worth holding onto—well, why hold on?  I wouldn’t say I planned it, but…it’d been in the back of my mind for a while.  A few things hit me all at once, and I did something stupid.”

“Umm hmm,” Sam said.  He was using his “counselor voice.”

“I was at Yellowstone,” he said.  “I’d been reading a pamphlet on what to do if you encountered a grizzly bear.”  He sighed.  “I set out to do the opposite.”

Sam was quiet for a minute.

“You tried to commit suicide?” he asked.

Steve sighed again.  “Yes.”

Sam looked at him—just looked; then he shook his head and crossed to where Steve sat.

“Don’t go all ‘manly men don’t touch’ on me now, okay?” he said.  “Because I’m going to hug you—and if you have a problem with that it’s just too damn bad.  You need a hug and I need to give you one.”

Steve tried to smile, and then he was held close in Sam’s arms.  He closed his eyes and leaned into the embrace, his breathing unsteady.  After a moment, his arms came up and he clung to Sam.

He didn’t know how long the three of them sat in silence while Sam held him.  A while.  Tony broke it, of course.

“See, this is why we needed you,” he said.  “I punched him in the arm, but he didn’t even wince.  One hug and you have him sobbing like a baby.”  Steve lifted his head to glare at Tony, and realized:  he was crying.

“You are just a huge prickly ball of uncomfortable with feelings, aren’t you?” Sam asked him.  “Well, rein in it.  Captain America and Iron Man sublimating their emotions into a fistfight is the kind of thing that breaks boats—and I can swim just fine, but San Francisco Bay’s too damn cold for a moonlit dip.”

“It’s a yacht,” Tony said.  “That’s not a boat.  It’s a ship.”

“Uh huh,” Sam said.  “If you want to deflect, that’s your business; but Steve doesn’t need your bull right now.”  He gently gripped Steve’s chin and turned his face towards his own.  Steve sniffed and wiped his eyes.  “Nah, don’t worry about that.  You forget anything anybody ever told you about men not crying.  Men like you and me and even him—we know.  There’s things we’ve lost that deserve our tears.  And I’m going to translate for Mister Emotionally Inept over there, just this once:  he wants to give you a hug too, but he’s too scared.”

Steve laughed involuntarily.

“Don’t believe me?” Sam asked.  Steve shrugged.  “Look at him.”  Steve huffed; but he turned and looked at Tony again, because Sam had asked him to.  Tony sat hunched by the steering wheel.  His shoulders were tight and his chin jutted out and his arms were crossed.  He looked like a stubborn kid sulking because the teacher made him sit in during recess and write lines.

He looked lonely.

It was strange to think of Tony Stark as a friend, but he was—he’d been a good friend to Steve when he’d needed one.

“I’m sorry I didn’t like you before,” he told Tony.  “I was wrong.  You’re a great guy.  You’ve been a good friend to me.  You have a good heart, Tony Stark.”

“Okay,” Tony said.  “Note to self:  weed purchased in Haight-Ashbury is stronger than one expects from a place where the hippy-dippy-trippy is mostly for the tourists.”

Steve shook his head.  “How does Pepper put up with you?”  A muscle in the side of Tony’s jaw twitched.  “I’m having five different kinds of crises, and I’d be dead if it weren’t for you.  Come give me a hug before I start to cry again.”

Tony twitched again, and his body loosened up some; but he didn’t move.  “I’m not hugging it out,” he said.  “I don’t do that.”

Steve sighed and turned back to Sam.

“I’m a dope sometimes, and I go looking for trouble,” he said.  “Someone’s gotta keep me in line.  Used to be that was Bucky.”

“I thought Captain America always did the right thing,” Sam said.

“That’s Captain America,” Steve said.  “Steve Rogers is a Brooklyn punk who used to pick fights with guys three times his size.”

“Fine,” Sam said.  “Steve Rogers, let me tell you something:  you are not alone, okay?  And this is my job, man!  You should have come to me.  I would’ve found someone to help you.”

“That would’ve been the smart thing to do,” Steve agreed.

“Sure,” Tony said.  “And Widow would have found you Monday morning, ‘cause that’s the first place she looked.  Tell me you wouldn’t have followed her back to New York with your tail between your legs, and nothing at all would have changed.”  He gestured expansively at the vista in front of them.  “Sometimes the right thing to do is the crazy thing.  The stupid, impulsive thing.  Not always.  Not nurses with sleazy morals and video phones.”  He turned to frown at Steve.  “But the man’s right about this:  you are not alone, you stupid jerk!  We care about you—me, and Sam, and Natasha—all of us.  Any of the Avengers.  You could have turned to any of us, and we would have helped you.”

“Not Barnes,” Steve said.

“Yes, Barnes,” Tony said.  “Maybe he’s been too messed up himself to be much support for you, but he cares.”

“Did you miss the part where he can’t stand me?  Where he wants me out of his life?” Steve asked.  “He literally said that:  _I don’t want him in my life_.”  He shook his head and didn’t try to stop the tears from falling.  “I can’t.  I—It’ll break me, looking every day for my friend in that familiar face, and seeing only contempt looking back.  It nearly did.”  He leaned back against his lounge chair and closed his eyes.  “There’s worse things to face than grizzly bears.”

“How long have you been in love with him?” Sam asked quietly.  Tony jerked up and stared at him.  Steve shrugged and looked at the city skyline.

“I can’t remember a time I wasn’t,” he said.

There wasn’t much to say after that.  Steve listened to the sound of the waves against the hull while Sam and Tony talked quietly, and then the drone of the motor as Tony steered them back to land.  He wasn’t sleeping, exactly; just rolling with the current—for once in his life, not trying to fight against it, just drifting with it and trusting that his friends would catch him if he strayed too far.

Friends like Sam—and Tony; wasn’t that a surprise?  Natasha, too.  He’d been so focused on using Barnes as a life line that he’d ignored the connections he’d made here in the future.  He knew how to work with a team, to rely on his fellow soldiers on a mission.  He didn’t like to lean on anybody when it came to his own life.  He never had.

Maybe it was time to learn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boys-in-leather-straps made another gorgeous fanmix for this fic: go [check it out](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/97605220308/boys-in-leather-straps-just-listen-to-your)! And after you listen to that, [this](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/97642874573/10-terrible-songs-about-san-francisco-and-10-good) is a fun list for of do's and don'ts to add to your San Francisco soundtrack.


	28. A Lengthy Confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to serenbach86, who graciously looked this chapter over to check for accuracy within the confessional. Any mistakes or misunderstandings that remain are mine. And while Most Holy Redeemer is a real Roman Catholic church in San Francisco (one I chose because of their LGBTQA-friendly stance), I invented Father Allan rather than put words in the mouth of a real priest I’ve never met or even spoken to.

***

 

 

 

_April 18th_

The next morning, after an early run with Sam, Steve caught the bus on Market Street and headed to Mass at Most Holy Redeemer.  After the service, he didn’t get up right away, but stayed seated and let people move around him as they departed.  Finally, only a few remained.  He took a deep breath and stood to find the church offices.

“I’d like to make an appointment with Father Allan, please,” he told the woman who was just sitting down at the reception desk.  “For a private confession.”

The priest stuck his head out of one of the doors down the hall.

“That was fast,” he said.  He looked intently at Steve for a minute before nodding.  “I have some time now.  Here, or—“

Steve never felt comfortable with a face to face confession.  It felt too much like talking instead of confessing to him.

“In the booth, please,” he said.  “But I can come back if this isn’t a good time.”  He took a deep breath.  “This might take a while.”

The priest’s face grew serious.

“Then now is the best time,” he said.  “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

Steve thanked him and the receptionist and retreated to the confessional.  When Father Allan came in, sat on his side of the booth, and indicated that Steve could begin, he took a deep breath.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.  My last confession was three weeks ago,” he said.  He took another deep breath, and set his jaw.  “I provoked an animal to kill me.  And instead I caused its death.  And it was endangered.  I didn’t know that, but it was.  And I’ve questioned the church’s—”

“Wait,” the priest said.  “Go back to that first one.  Where you tried to cause an animal to kill you.”

“A grizzly bear,” Steve said.  “I had—I’ve been confused, I guess; and I learned of the death of a friend, and—I started to despair.  And I was at Yellowstone.  So I went out onto a trail that’s in bear territory, and I stayed on it until I found a bear.  And then I deliberately got close enough that it attacked me.  A friend saved me by chasing it away.”

“You have a courageous friend,” the priest said.  “And angels watching over you, to have survived a grizzly bear attack.

“Yeah,” Steve agreed.  “My friend’s pretty brave.”  Tony was brave in a lot of ways.  Chasing off grizzly bears was the least of it.  “I don’t know about the angels.  Maybe so.”

“Was this the first time you have felt such despair?” the priest asked.

Steve bit his lip.

“This was the worst,” he said.  “I’ve been pretty low for a while.  And confused about—some stuff—lately.  I don’t doubt that God has a plan, but sometimes I wonder if His plan for me wasn’t that I should already be dead.”

“My son, have you considered—  I have only just met you, but it seems clear to me that you suffer from depression,” Father Allan said.  “It is a dangerous disease, and it affects your emotions and your thoughts.  You must seek treatment, or you risk committing this grave sin again.”

Steve shook his head.

“It was—  I won’t,” he said.  “It was just—  It was an impulse.  I’ve got friends watching out for me ’till I get back on my feet.”  He exhaled heavily.  “I’ve walked with it for a while now.  I know how to do it.” 

“I am even more concerned if you have felt depressed for some time,” the priest said.  “One of the most insidious effects of the disease is that it isolates us from those around us.  It prevents us from experiencing God’s love for us—and the resulting hopelessness and despair may prompt a drastic action such as the one you took.  God’s will for you is happiness, not melancholy.”

Steve nodded.  “Yes, Father,” he said.

Father Allan was silent for a time.  Then:  “That doesn’t help you at all, does it?” he asked.

Steve huffed a weak laugh.

“No, not much,” he said.  “Sorry.”  He shook his head.  “I’ve lived for duty a long time, it seems like.  I’m not sure it’s enough anymore.  Maybe I’m not strong enough.  Maybe—I don’t know.  Sometimes I worry that it’s because I’m unnatural.  Because of what was done to me.  If it took me outside Creation somehow.”  He paused.  “If maybe that’s why I’m alone.”

“What was done to you?” the priest prompted.

Steve sighed, and pushed the grill aside.

“I’m Steve Rogers, Father,” he said.  “Captain America.  What I mean is—what if God meant for me to die in 1945?  What if His will was for me to die in the ice?”

The priest leaned forward and studied his face.

“You are, aren’t you?” he said, and was silent for a long time.  When he spoke again, his voice was even more serious.  “Perhaps evil could have come of Doctor Erskine’s serum.  There were those in the church who condemned Project Rebirth as such when it became known.”

“I didn’t know that,” Steve said.  “Why?”

“Doctor Erskine’s serum was intended to create a ‘super-soldier’:  to change a man—a being created in God’s image—into a weapon, twisting him away from God’s design to become a monstrous mockery,” Father Allan said.  “Creation is God’s purview, not Man’s.”

Steve was quiet for a while.  When he could speak again, his voice was shaky.

“Do you think I am?” he asked.  “A weapon?  A monster?”

“No,” the priest replied.  “Perhaps the result of the experiment might have been evil, if the subject had been different…  But you—you have been a blessing in this world.  I wonder if what happened to you is not God’s plan—if He did not set you out of time in 1945, only to be rescued a few years ago, because He knew we would need you again in these times.”  Now his voice grew chiding.  “The gift of life is God’s great gift to us, and to seek to end your own life—you would have thrown away that gift, and left God’s Creation without one of its strongest protectors.  This is a grave transgression.”

  Steve sighed.  “Yes, Father,” he said.

“Do you have someone you can talk with about this?” Father Allan asked.

“I think so,” Steve said.  “I have a friend who works with returning vets.  Folks with PTSD.  He’s a good listener, and he—he knows what it’s like.”

“Good,” the priest said.  “You may continue.”

Steve closed his eyes, set his jaw, and breathed deep.  

“I,” he tried.  “I’ve questioned the teachings of the church.  And I.  I’ve thought about.  About.”  He shook his head.  Yep.  Harder to confess to this than to a suicide attempt.  “I’ve been unchaste.  By myself, in mind and body.  And with another man.”

“This is difficult for you to confess,” the priest said.

Steve nodded and sought Father Allan’s eyes through the tiny window between them.  “And if you can, I need you to explain why the church is right about what it teaches about sexuality and sexual orientation, because I’ve been doing some thinking about it, and reading about it—and I can’t see it as a violation of God’s will anymore.  It just doesn’t make sense to me, that God would make some people this way.  Not if God wants us to be happy, like you said.”  He paused for another deep breath.  “And because I’m thinking about doing it again.”

“You have a unique situation,” the priest said.  “You were born in another time, and many of society’s mores have changed since then.  You are right to seek to do God’s will rather than acquiesce to what society finds acceptable.  Much is acceptable to society that is abhorrent to God.”  He paused.  “What do you think is the greater evil?  To love another man, or to ignore injustice and the suffering of others?  To stand aside instead?”

“They’re both wrong,” Steve said.  “Only I’m not sure about that first one anymore.”  Steve rubbed his face with his hands.  “I came here because—I’ve started to think one thing, but I still _feel_ the way I was raised, and—I’ve been coming apart at the seams, Father.”  He paused.

“Is there more?” Father Allan asked.

Steve laughed briefly.

“That’s not enough?” he asked.  

“I suppose it is,” Father Allan said.

Steve closed his eyes and sighed.  “For these and all the sins of my past life, I am truly sorry,” he said.

Father Allan was silent for a minute before he began.  Steve trembled a little as he waited; but no matter how awful it was to admit to what he’d done, he’d always found some comfort in the confession once that part was over.  He felt calm despite his jitters.

“This is your penance, my son,” Father Allan began.  “Within a week, you will seek out psychiatric treatment for your depression.  You will continue such treatment until you and the counselor you choose decide that you have recovered from this depression, following the prescribed treatment in every way—whether it is the use of medication, or counseling sessions, or any other recommendation of your counselor.  Within the next month, you will contact the National Park Service and offer your services as a spokesperson promoting the care and protection of endangered species.  In addition to your other prayers, you will pray daily for one year— the Magnificat, and a prayer to Saint Jude for either hope or healing—and on days when despair threatens, all three.”

Steve waited for a moment, but the priest offered nothing else.

“Father?” he asked.

“Yes, my son?” Father Allan replied.

“And.  For my questioning, and for my unchaste thoughts and actions?” Steve asked.

“Of course,” Father Allan said.  “For all your sins, I charge you:  serve our Lord Jesus Christ as a protector of the weak, as a symbol of strength used for righteousness instead of power, as a light of hope to all people, and as a warrior dedicated to the defense of all that is good in the world, confident that God will strengthen you for the task.  In other words:  to be Captain America.  And this penance you will serve for the rest of your life.”

“But—“ Steve said.

“Guard against base lust, and be guided by love in all its forms,” Father Allan said.  “And while you are in San Francisco, attend Mass each Sunday evening with Dignity San Francisco.  Sarah in the front office will give you a card with the address and directions.  When you return to New York, seek out the Dignity chapter there, and attend Mass with them each Sunday for six more months.  This will complete your penance.  God the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of His Son has reconciled the world to Himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

“Thank you, Father,” Steve said automatically, and stumbled from the confessional booth.

He hadn’t known what to expect; but whatever it was, it wasn’t that.  It had all the pieces, but he’d never had a confession like that.  He picked up the card for— _Dignity?_   He’d never heard of it.  The card had a url printed at the bottom, so Steve pulled out his phone to look up their website.  Centered right at the top it proclaimed:

_Celebrating the wholeness and holiness of Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender Catholics_

_serving San Francisco since 1973_

Holy cow.  _Definitely_ hadn’t been expecting that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am going to be spamming Tumblr today, as in addition to my usual queue there’s a [link to the prayers Father Allan assigns Steve](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/98221640793/the-magnificat-and-saint-judes-prayers-for-hope-and) for penance in this chapter and also scattered posts for Bi Visibility Day (today—but also this whole week). Think of Steve when you wear your purple! (Or for those of us who are lucky enough to own one, your Bi! Cap t-shirt…)


	29. Infiltration Tactics

***

 

_April 10th_

Buck had imagined that he would take on Hydra on his own, like the Lone Ranger in black combat gear.  That might have worked for a handful of Hydra agents in a handful of bolt holes, but it wouldn’t work for something like LaGuardia-Rikers.  He needed additional resources and allies for that.

He had some of both at hand in the Avengers.  He simply had to convince them that they wanted to help.  Most useful of all would be JARVIS’ ability to infiltrate Hydra’s computers and databases, but he was unsure whether including JARVIS in his plans was wise.  JARVIS had already proved unreliable.  Tony Stark controlled the AI, so he controlled the AI’s actions; and what the AI knew, Stark knew.

He didn’t need Stark deciding to interfere the way he had with Natasha.  That could make an already risky plan impossible.

If he thought he could convince the AI to share the information it found only with him and not Stark, maybe he’d change his mind—but right now that seemed unlikely.  JARVIS was an intelligence risk.  He was counting on Natasha’s skills to subvert any tech that needed it.

So his potential allies were:  Natasha, Barton, Banner; with an off-chance of the unknown Thor arriving in time to help, and perhaps Fury’s support…but neither of the last two could be counted on, and he had some hesitation about Fury’s inclusion.  He didn’t trust Fury.  If Fury helped, it would be for his own reasons; and he didn’t think those would be in his interests.  Natasha was the only one whose support he felt certain of, but he thought her influence on Barton would bring him in too.  So that was two.

Banner?  Who knew what motivated Banner?  He had no idea if he’d be willing to be involved or not.  And he didn’t actually need Banner’s help; he needed the Hulk.  In his human state, Banner was useless to him; but his monstrous alter-ego couldn’t be controlled—maybe not even predicted.  He wasn’t certain Banner’s involvement would be a tactical advantage.  Without him, though…  He needed the Hulk’s overwhelming force.  Or something like it.

He would prefer a larger and more reliable team.  It was the strength and weakness of the Avengers—they were a mishmash of skills and personalities, and sometimes the bond that tied them together was tenuous.  It was easy for them to fall apart.  It had happened before.

And two of their linchpins—Captain America and Iron Man—were missing.

When the Avengers were unified in purpose, then they were formidable.  He had to hope Hydra’s threat was enough to pull them together.

He arrived at Avengers Tower about an hour before dinner.  One of the side effects of Natasha’s domineering was that all of the Avengers living at the tower were eating dinner together.  Barton and she generally ate together anyway; Buck wasn’t more than a mediocre cook so he had been glad to eat someone else’s cooking; and Banner gave in easily when it came to things like that.   Banner insisted on taking on some of the responsibility for meal preparation as well.  Barton didn’t say anything about it, but he thought he was just as grateful as him for Banner’s contributions.  Natasha wasn’t a bad cook.  But nutrition trumped flavor with her, and food he enjoyed—hot food, food prepared with attention to its taste, that he could choose to eat or not depending on what he wanted?  That was a luxury worth savoring.

That night was Banner’s turn to cook.  He paused briefly to consider whether he should disarm before he went to talk to Banner, but decided Banner knew he wasn’t a threat to him.  Nothing was a threat to Banner.

Sometimes it was convenient not to be the biggest weapon in a room.  He could have done a lot if he’d been underestimated more.

He sat down at the kitchen table with his back to the wall and watched Banner cook—something with rice and chicken and a yellow sauce.  Steamed broccoli for Natasha.  It wasn’t familiar to him, but it’d be good; Banner liked to cook.  He got a little lost in the scents as he waited—lemon, and garlic, and coconut; and some spice he didn’t recognize…

“Did you come early for a reason?” Banner asked after a while.  “Dinner won’t be ready for half an hour if you have something else you need to do.”

“I have a question,” he replied.

Banner turned away from the stovetop, wooden spoon still in his hand.

“For me?” he asked.

He nodded.  Banner waited.  When he didn’t say anything, Banner sighed and turned back to the pot of yellow mystery sauce.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he said.

He thought for a minute about how to say it.

“Do you regret not killing the Abomination?” he finally asked.  Banner turned and regarded him.

“No,” he said.  “Why do you ask?”

“If he escaped?  If he were still at large, waiting for his chance?” he persisted.  “Would you have the same answer?”

Banner set his spoon down, turned off the heat under the sauce pot, and came to sit down at the table.

“I don’t think I’m hearing the right question,” Banner said.  “What do you want to know?”

“I’m not free,” he said.  “I have a past waiting for its chance to chain me again.  As soon as Hydra recuperates, that’s what they’ll try to do.  I won’t go back.  I’ll destroy them first.”

Banner nodded.

“Will you help me?” he asked.

“Help you…” Banner prompted.

“Eliminate them,” he said.  “Wipe out Hydra for good.”

“That sounds violent,” Banner said.  “I try to avoid that kind of situation.”

“That’s a mistake,” he told Banner.  “You hand your enemies control of the battlefield when you do that.”

“Are you ready for that kind of fight?” Banner asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said.  “Hydra will only grow stronger.  I won’t.  Waiting any longer is a poor strategy.  I’m ready enough.”

Natasha and Barton entered the kitchen, and Banner turned to greet them.

“Have you asked them for help?” Banner asked him.  “Either is better suited to this kind of thing.”

“I plan to, but I came to you first,” he said.

Natasha placed her hand on Barton’s forearm and tilted her head as she looked at him.

“Help with what?” she asked.

“Taking out an unacceptable security risk,” he said.  Her eyes narrowed.

“James?” she asked.  “What’s wrong?”

“Hydra has a complex of tunnels underneath LaGuardia Airport and Rikers Island,” he told her.  “Most likely the largest remaining Hydra base in the U.S.”

“Why wait until now to say something?” she asked.

“I didn’t remember until now,” he said.  “Doc helped me recover some wiped memories.  This was one of them.”

“It sounds like a lot for four people to take on, even if one of them is a Hulk,” she said.  “You don’t want more reinforcements?”

“Yes,” he said.  “Who?”

She didn’t have an answer for that.  Barton, surprisingly, did.

“I know some people,” Barton said.  “But they’re not in New York.  When do you want to do this?”

“As soon as feasible,” he said.

Barton nodded.

“Tell us the plan, and I’ll go make some calls,” Barton said.  “My best guess is it’ll be three or four days for all of them to get here.”

He outlined his strategy for them.  Banner looked blank, and Natasha puzzled, but Barton nodded and asked the right questions before disappearing to make his calls.

Banner went back to finishing dinner.

“You didn’t come right back after your appointment,” Natasha said.

“I stopped for coffee,” he said.

Her eyes narrowed again.

“I told you not to,” she said.

“I didn’t concur with your risk assessment,” he said.

“There are two Avengers missing!” she exclaimed.

“Both of them left willingly and are taking steps to conceal their locations,” he replied.  “They’re not missing; they’ve gone elsewhere.”

“We don’t know that!  Maybe we’re supposed to think that so we won’t investigate!  And they’re not just gone; they’ve both been incommunicado since they left,” she said.  “That’s more than _gone_.  What is going on with you?  You don’t care about Steve; you do care about him; you want to know where he’s gone; you don’t care if he comes back—Make up your mind!”

“If he doesn’t come back to New York on his own, I intend to find Steve Rogers,” he said.  Barton came back into the room and sat at the table, and Banner began serving dinner.  “Tony Stark I care less about.  We can find him afterwards if you want.”  He tried a bite of the lemon-garlic-coconut-chicken-whatever it was.  It was delicious.  He had another bite.  “But this has to happen first.  Taking out the Hydra base under LaGuardia and Rikers will give us access to Hydra intelligence we may be able to use for the search; or if Hydra is involved in his disappearance, we’ll be able to learn that.  And leaving it in New York City exposes our flank.”  He looked to Barton.  “Are your people in?”

“They’re in,” Barton said.  “Most of them are eager to take a shot at Hydra, especially when it’s so clear cut.  They’ll be here late Sunday night.  One or two may be delayed until Monday.”

“We’ll plan the briefing for Monday, then,” he said.  “The time until then will be best spent on reconnaissance.  I could use your eyes for that.”  Barton nodded.  “Let’s meet at four a.m. for a first look.”

“Clint and I were planning to seduce you into that threesome we talked about after dinner tonight,” Natasha said.  “With round two in the morning after sleeping in.  So a four a.m. wakeup call doesn’t work with my schedule.”

“I’ve reconsidered my interest,” he said after a beat.  “Sorry to disappoint.”

She slammed one hand on the table and with the other grabbed his suit right under his chin and tried to drag him out of his seat.  He didn’t kill her; but he didn’t let her pull him out of his chair, either.

It wasn’t easy not to kill her.

“Who are you?” she asked.  “You’re not James.”

“I am James,” he said.  Her hand tightened at his throat.  “We all are.  It’s simpler.  But if you mean who has been dominant for most of the time you’ve known us—that’s Buck.”

“And you’re…” she whispered.  Letting go of his suit, she pushed away and faced him across the length of the table.  Her face was pale.  He looked at her and waited.  It didn’t escape him that she’d planted her feet for an attack and dropped a Widow’s Bite into her hand.  She took a deep breath.  “Bruce, Clint—meet the Winter Soldier.  I think.”

“Call me James,” he said.

“The hell I will,” Natasha said.  “James was my friend.”

“If you choose to think of us that way, Buck is your friend,” he told her.  “But we all like you.  We all consider you a friend.  And he’s not gone.  I’m dominant now.  He’s had a long time on top, and now it’s my turn.  But he’ll be back.”

“All?” she asked.  “‘You _all_ consider me a friend?’”

“Buck,” he said.  “Bucky.  And yes, me.”

She looked sick—her eyes wide, her face pale and twisted.

“It’s refreshing to not have the most confusing identity issues in the room,” Banner said.

“Why do _you_ want to take out Hydra?” Natasha asked.

“Would you allow the Red Room to put down roots in your city?” he returned.  “Or would you burn them to the ground and dance in the ashes?”

“Somehow I can’t see the Winter Soldier dancing,” she said.

“I’ve been learning,” he said.  “I’ve had a good teacher.”

She looked hard at him.

“Why do you want to find Steve?” she asked.  He met her glare with an even gaze.  “Why. Do. You. Want. To. Find. Steve?” she repeated.

“That’s complicated,” he said at last.

“I’ll kill you before I let you touch him,” she said.

“Yes, that’s what Buck says,” he replied.

“Definitely not the most confusing identity issues in the room for once,” Banner said.

“This isn’t relevant,” he told Natasha.  “Will you help me with Hydra or not?”

Natasha looked at him for a long time before she answered.  “No, I don’t think I will.”  She turned her back on him and left the room.

He hadn’t expected that.  Perhaps it would have been better to return control to Buck, whom the Avengers were familiar with.  It was too late now.  He’d had had enough confinement, within his head or within a cryo-coffin.  And Buck was too volatile for this.  Let him wrest control if he could.  If he encountered a situation he couldn’t withstand but Buck’s skill set could handle, he’d yield.  For now, the lead in their dance was his.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've updated the [timeline](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/98821767093/timeline-for-as-a-cruel-mistress-woos) if you want to check how the two plotlines intersect.


	30. Not Who I Thought You Were

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've updated [the fic's timeline on tumblr](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/99403140713/timeline-for-as-a-cruel-mistress-woos-through-ch-30), because things may start to get confusing here as the New York storyline is a bit behind Steve's storyline. You might want to check it out...
> 
> And you should DEFINITELY check out the gorgeous [cover art Lovesfic made for this story!](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/99311830638/lovesfic-like-a-cruel-mistress-woos-is-a) I am in awe and amazed and blown away by it

***

 

_April 10th_

Clint tracked her down on the deck overlooking the city.

“Want to talk about it?” he asked.

“No,” Talia said.

He stood next to her, looking out at the city lights in silence.

“I had a hard time with him at first,” he said.  “But he’s not a bad guy.  I like him.  I was starting to feel jealous.”

She turned to look at him.  He seemed serious, even humorless, to others; but to her, each tiny movement of his mouth was eloquent.  He was the first person to have seen who she was underneath the Black Widow, and he had seen something valuable in that person beyond her skill set.  He had been sent to kill her, but he had chosen instead to save her--from the Red Room, and from herself.  

She owed him.  She’d worked hard to learn to read him—each twitch, each slight difference in the tone of voice.  She had needed to know him, because she had a debt to pay.  She’d thought that once she understood why he’d offered her shelter when he’d been sent to eliminate her—she would know how she could clear her ledger with him.  She could set aside her study and move on.

Only she couldn’t, when the time came.

She’d told herself then that she took him to her bed so that she’d have paid her debt.  Afterwards she could forget him.  He would become just another colleague to her.  But he hadn’t fallen into her bed immediately, instead waiting for some signal she didn't see; and when he did acquiesce to her, he was neither boring nor selfish—unlike every other man she’d seduced.  She only became more interested in him afterwards.  That hadn’t happened before.

He never tried to claim he owned her.  He never bragged of his conquest or expected that once or five or ten or a hundred times gave him a hold on her.  He never presumed.  He accepted what she offered as a gift.

She wasn’t sure what she had with him.  Love was for children.  But she had come to see their connection, what he offered her—his gift to her was far greater than anything she had given him.

“Why jealous?” she asked.

“He seemed to have come to terms with it,” Clint said.  “He didn’t feel the guilt I feel.  The horror at what I’ve done.  But maybe it’s because he’s still living with it.  Loki’s hold on my mind is gone—but the Winter Soldier is inside his head and going nowhere.”

“I want to know what his doctor was thinking to allow the Winter Soldier to leave her office,” she said.  “I’m worried that he killed or incapacitated her and left.  I tried her office and there’s no answer.  I was debating whether to investigate further.”  She shuddered.  “And I’m not sleeping with the Winter Soldier in the building unless he’s in containment.  Maybe not even then.”

“We’ve been living with him for over seven months,” Clint said.  “If he wanted to kill us, he would have done it.”

She shrugged.

“And I don’t know for certain,” he said.  “I don’t know him as well as you do.  But to me he seemed like himself, only serious and in control, which made sense with the threat he’s facing.  Maybe he’s more like ‘Buck’ than you think.”

“He’s a killer,” she told him.  He looked at her with fond amusement, and she sighed.

“I’m not saying we shouldn’t be on our guard,” he said.  “He had six months to make a move; but if Buck was in control instead of the Winter Soldier, maybe he couldn’t.  For the first time I’m glad Steve’s gone.”

“I don’t like not knowing where he is,” Talia told him.

“I know you don’t,” Clint replied.  “None of us do.  But taking down this Hydra base—if it’s where he says it is and as big as he says it is—that’s not a job we can afford to walk away from.  I’m not going to command you to do it, but it’s going to happen whether you’re in or not.”  He placed a gentle hand on her nape.  “Call his doctor again.  She’ll have an after hours emergency number.  Check on her; and if she’s not okay, we’ll deal with him.  But if she is, then think about how you want this to go.”  He sighed.  “I’m going to try to convince JARVIS that we need to get through to Tony.  Whatever he’s doing now, this is more important.”

“If I may interrupt, Mister Barton,” JARVIS said, “I cannot judge the importance of his current task compared to this threat, but I will take the liberty of patching you through to Mister Stark.  He may then weigh the risks himself.”

“You can’t tell us what he’s doing?” Talia asked.  “Not anything?”

“More than Mister Stark’s privacy is involved,” JARVIS said.  “I’m afraid I can’t at this time.”  There was a long pause.  “Mister Barton, Mister Stark is on the line.”

“Whatever it is, I’m busy,” Tony said.  “Handle it.”

“Too busy for a major Hydra base in New York City?” Clint asked.  “What kind of job are you on?”

“It’s a different kind of job,” Tony answered.  “If you can’t deal with it without me, go to Fury for help.”

“Fury’s mostly flying solo these days,” Clint said.  “I asked Coulson.  But this is a big one, Tony.”

“If it were anything else, I’d be there,” Tony said.  “I can’t leave this.  You’ve got whatever help JARVIS can provide and access to whatever resources you need, but you’re going to have to handle it without me.”

“Fine,” Clint said curtly.  “JARVIS, I’m done.”

“Yes, Mister Barton,” JARVIS said.  “Mister Stark is offline.  Do you have further instructions?”

“Edge around the net for hints of Hydra communications,” Clint said.  “Don’t risk detection.  I’m going to talk to James about our options.”

“The Winter Soldier,” Talia corrected.

Clint leaned in to kiss her temple.

“I know,” he said.  “But he’s James too, and it’s not a bad idea to get to know him.  I’d like to have a better handle on him before Steve returns.”

“I’d like him gone,” Talia said.  Clint smiled at her.

“I get that,” he said.  “We don’t have much choice about it.”  He dropped his hand and stepped back, business-like again.  “Do you want him out of the apartment?”

“Yes,” she said.  “I’m serious about him being confined while I’m sleeping, too.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Clint said.  He gazed at her for a long moment and turned to go.

“If I do this, it won’t be for him and it won’t be to take out Hydra,” she said.  “It’ll be for you.  Because you asked.”

His expression warmed.  With what, she didn’t know.  Love was for children.  He nodded to her and left.

 

***

 

Barton came back from his talk with Natasha without a word of explanation.

“Thanks, Bruce,” he said to Banner.  “Go ahead.  James and I have some strategic decisions to make, and I don’t expect to need you until the big day.”

Banner gave them a half smile and left.  The Winter Soldier watched Barton and waited.

“I talked to Tony,” Barton told him.  “We have whatever we need, including JARVIS; but he’s not coming.  We’ll have to do this without Iron Man.”

He nodded.

“And you’ll be moving to a secure location to sleep tonight,” Barton said.  “I’ll show you where after we discuss some of our players’ skills and preliminary tactics.”

He blinked a few times and his muscles tensed involuntarily, but he’d suffered worse insults.  Barton and Natasha had been kind to Buck.  But he wasn’t Buck, and he didn’t have Buck’s easy charm.  

Why should this be a surprise? They didn’t know him.  And perhaps they were right not to trust him. Even Hydra—Hydra had used him, but they had never trusted him.

And while Natasha had rejected him, Barton had shown his mettle as a leader.  Despite his dislike of James, Barton listened to him; and responded rationally and quickly when he heard the mission’s importance.  Barton thought strategically and clearly.  They would work well together.

He excised any hurt.  It wasn’t an emotion the Winter Soldier required. 

He completed his missions.  He made the world they lived in what it was.  The ways he had shaped the world were powerful.  Few knew his name or even of his existence, but the entire world knew the consequences of his actions.

Those who did know him:  his competence was legend.  He was a force to be feared.  It gave him satisfaction.

 He had nothing else.  The mission was everything.

He hadn’t been sure what would happen after he completed his mission without a handler to provide his next one.  He felt at a loss without a handler's guidance. He had speculated that a new handler would come for him once he was finished.  But a new handler hadn’t come; and though his last two missions—one incomplete, one failed—gnawed at him, he was living with it.

And who would send the handler?  Hydra?  Hydra had shredded him until he was fragmented and broken and used him mercilessly.  The only thing he wanted from Hydra was vengeance.

He had wondered if the new handler hadn’t come _because_ he had failed his last missions as the Winter Soldier.  But this—destroying this Hydra base—there was necessity in this, and he was the one who had determined it.  Perhaps more missions would come to him the same way.

What he didn’t know was this:  did that make him his own handler?  Or was Barton his handler?  If Barton was his handler, was it for this one objective only, or was it from now on?

As leader of the Avengers, Barton was in charge now.  Neither Banner nor Natasha would follow the Winter Soldier, and Barton was bringing in more of his own people.  But that didn’t necessarily make Barton his handler.  He had brought the job to Barton, and Barton had agreed to take it.

So maybe he was his own handler.  If so, he had no idea how that might work.  But he seemed to have given himself this assignment.

It didn’t matter yet.  If there came a time when his goals conflicted with Barton’s directives, he’d deal with it then.

“Is Natasha in?” he asked.  He needed to know what assets they had for the job.  Her skills were valuable, and her shunning him had been an unexpected factor.  Of all of them, she was the one whose support he had counted on.

“She didn’t say,” Barton said.  “We’ll consider both possibilities.”

That made sense.  He liked the way Barton thought.  Sometimes handlers were volatile or had inadequate situational understanding or expected something from him that wasn’t in his capacity.  Barton was not and did not.

And necessary as this job was, it was in the end a step towards his primary mission.  That argued against Barton becoming his permanent handler.  He’d consider that in his assessment.

He had never had a mission as complicated as this one.  He had never encountered so many difficulties or such competent opponents.  But the Winter Soldier had never failed to complete a mission objective before.  He didn’t expect that this would become the first.

He had no name of his own.  He couldn’t step into a normal life the way Buck could.  He didn’t know how to function:  to interact with people, to understand what motivated others, to see life as more than his assigned task.  He was what remained when everything that made a man but the sniper’s eye and trigger finger were removed, and nothing more.  Without the mission, he was nothing.

But give him a mission, and he shook the world.

 


	31. Daddy's Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Timeline for the story so far](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/92628065948/timeline-for-as-a-cruel-mistress-woos).

*** 

 

_April 13th_

Walking into the briefing Monday to find Phil Coulson chatting with Clint was unexpectedly heartwarming.  She hadn’t recognized how integral his unflappable calm and competent presence at S.H.I.E.L.D. were until he was gone; and even when he returned from the dead, he had different responsibilities.  They barely saw him anymore.

She nodded at Clint as she moved across the room toward him and Phil.  The Winter Soldier had his back to the wall midway across the room.  His face was serene as his eyes noted each person present.  Scanning for threats, evaluating their ability to fulfill their role on the team, planning the most efficient way to kill them…  There was no way to know.  She marked him with her eyes and moved on.

“Clint told me Captain Rogers left six weeks ago, and then fell off the radar about a month ago,” Phil said to her after a warm greeting.  “And now Tony’s gone.  You seem calmer than I expected, given the news.”

“I don’t panic,” Talia said.  “We’ll deal with this and then we’ll find them.”

“You’ve succeeded in keeping it quiet,” he said.  “I didn’t hear he was gone until Clint told me, though I did start to wonder after Director Carter’s death.  I wrote a condolence note for the Captain, and he never answered.”

“I haven’t heard about Peggy Carter’s death,” she said.  “Preoccupied with Steve’s disappearance, I suppose.  When was it?”

“Just over a week ago,” he said.  “April fourth.”

“Hmm,” she said.  Unrelated, then.  Steve had already been gone a month by the fourth.  “She’ll be missed.”

Phil’s eyes flickered to where the Winter Soldier kept a placid eye on the room.

“How’s Sergeant Barnes coping with Captain Rogers gone?” he asked.

“That’s not James Barnes,” she told him.  “That’s the Winter Soldier.  He came back from his last doctor’s visit that way.  We don’t know what happened.  His doctor claimed doctor-patient privilege.  But any progress he made during rehabilitation is gone.”

Phil tilted his head and looked at her.

“Are you sure?” he asked.  “My understanding was that the Winter Soldier had little, if any, volition.  But he took the initiative to come to the Avengers with this, and any loyalty to Hydra seems to be gone.”

She glared at him.

“You don’t know him,” she said.  “James Barnes was my friend, and the man leaning against the wall there?  That man isn’t anything like him.  Maybe he’s not loyal to Hydra anymore.  It makes him even more dangerous.  It means there’s nothing controlling him.”

Phil raised an eyebrow at her.

“Only what controls any of us,” Phil said.  “Ourselves.”  He paused and looked across the room at Bruce before returning his steady gaze to hers.  “You work well with Doctor Banner, and he’s the most dangerous person in this room.  Maybe on the planet.  And his control is excellent, but it’s not complete.  He’s come as close to killing you as the Winter Soldier did, hasn’t he?”

“They’re nothing alike,” she said.  “The Winter Soldier doesn’t have a conscience, and Bruce is painfully aware of the consequences of releasing the Hulk.  He regrets it every time he causes harm.  But it’s not that the Winter Soldier tried to kill me.  It’s this:  for over fifty years, Hydra had James Buchanan Barnes trapped in his own mind.  For less than a year—an extraordinarily painful year for him—he’s been free.  And now he’s trapped again.”

“It’s like the Red Room captured you again,” he said.

“No,” she replied.  “It’s like I believed their deceptions once more, with nothing and no one to bring me out of it.”

“There’s always ‘cognitive recalibration,’” Phil said.

“I’ve thought about it,” she said.

 

***

 

Barton’s reinforcements were an odd mix.  He wouldn’t have chosen some of them for this operation had he any other options.

Like the scientists.  He didn’t like scientists.  Banner he tolerated because the Hulk was needed.  These others had no use.  The hacker might be useful if Natasha didn’t join them; but with access to JARVIS, she wasn’t necessary either.

But it didn’t matter.  Apparently they were a team; and to have one of them, he had to have all of them.  Hydra had never given him choices about his backup.  All he could do was plan a strategy that kept them out of the way. 

Some of Barton’s people had valuable skill sets.  Hill.  May.  Hunter.  Rhodes.  Triplett.  Shaw.  Those he could use.  Coulson seemed harmless, his skills not obvious; but Barton assured him he was competent.  The way Coulson watched him made him edgy, though; so he trusted Barton’s evaluation of the man and stayed away.

And one or two had unique abilities that, like the Hulk, could make them crucial assets in the implementation of their battle plan.

Something in him relaxed when Natasha entered the room.  He hadn’t seen her since their confrontation several days ago.  It was pointless to resent that her loyalty was to Buck alone.  She hadn’t met him—not as an ally.  But he hadn’t expected the level of animosity she seemed to feel.  He wondered what she would make of Bucky—though that broken fragment hardly ever surfaced.  He was said to be charming, but perhaps Buck had inherited all of that.

He had none of it.  A weapon had no need to charm.

Barton was beginning to explain their situation to the gathering:  what they had learned about LaGuardia-Rikers and their strategy for its elimination, when Tony Stark walked into the room.

“Hey, kids, Daddy’s home!” he said.  “Did you miss me?”

Barton rolled his eyes.  Natasha (and a couple of the others) leapt to their feet.  Doctor Banner left the room almost immediately.  Natasha was cursing Stark, Stark’s parents, Stark’s future children, all in Russian.  The Winter Soldier kept his back to the wall and one eye on the door as he watched the chaos unfold.  He didn’t engage.

“All right, all right!” Barton finally yelled.  “Everybody shut up!”  Natasha looked furious, but subsided.  “Everyone, we’re going to need some time.  Let’s reconvene in an hour.”  Slowly people started to file out of the room.  Soon everyone was gone but Barton, Natasha, Coulson, Rhodes; and May, who settled with her back to the wall next to the door.  A guard, not a participant in the discussion.  “Colonel, if you want to hang around and yell, you’re welcome to; but there’s a line.  You’ll have to wait until we’ve had our turn.”

“That’s all right,” Rhodes—Iron Patriot—said.  “I’ll catch him later, after you all have softened him up some.”

“Ahh, Rhodey, I’m glad to see you too,” Stark said.  “You should come around more often.  I was just telling Pepper you should come around more often.”

Rhodes shook his head and left the room, but he clapped a hand on Stark’s shoulder as he did.  Natasha waited until the door closed behind him before turning on Stark.

“Where have you been?” she asked, her eyes hard and narrowed.  “And why keep it such a secret?”

“There was a thing,” he said.  “Pepper’s embarrassed, so she asked me not to tell people about it.  You know how it is.  When there’s a thing.  But I had a few hours to kill and I thought I’d swing by—because the babysitter seems to think you’re planning an attack on a big Hydra base; and this isn’t a good time for field trips, even if your friends’ parents say they can go.  Wait ‘till Daddy’s business trip is over and we’ll discuss it then.”

“Not to encourage this analogy in which I’m supposed to be the babysitter,” Barton said.  “But the way I see it, if Daddy doesn’t trust the sitter, he should stick around to supervise.”

“No can do,” Stark replied.  “But as far as I can tell, there’s no urgency.  They don’t know we know about them.  It can wait.”

“But why wait?” Coulson asked.  “While Hydra’s still in some disarray is the best time to strike.  I can’t guarantee my team’s ability to provide support at some indeterminate future date.  We have other jobs.”

Stark shook his head.

“I don’t want to imply that we don’t need your team, Agent Agent,” he said.  “I’m straight out saying it.  We _don’t_ need your team.  We’re down a few members currently, so we’ll wait until everybody’s home for Thanksgiving before we do this.  If you can come by for some turkey and a little Smash the Hydra Hideout, great; and if not, we’ll post the pictures on Instagram.  It’ll be hilarious.  Thor’s going to love Thanksgiving.”

“Are you with Steve?” Natasha asked abruptly.  “What’s going on with him?”  The Winter Soldier focused on Stark’s answer.  He looked like he was lying—his face too smooth, his eyes sparkling and mouth twitching smugly; but he usually looked like he was lying.  His expression hadn’t changed .

“When he gets back, Gramps is going to be so touched to hear how you miss him,” Stark said.  “But I haven’t seen him.  Haven’t really been looking, either—he’s a big boy.”  His face settled into momentary seriousness.  “Let it go, Widow.  Cap will be back when he’s ready.”

“I don’t believe you,” she replied.  “You don’t get to keep this from us, Tony.  Where’s Steve?  Why hasn’t he come back?”

“I don’t believe _you_ ,” Stark said.  “Letting the Capsicle get the best of you like this, and now hoping I have some sort of a cheat sheet?  Where’s your professional pride?  Spies do have that kind of thing, right?  Find him yourself.”

“No, see, something’s up,” Barton said.  “Because whatever might be going on with Pepper, unless she were in the hospital, you’d be here.”

“She is in the hospital,” Stark answered.  “She’s having some work done.  Didn’t want anyone to know.  Oops.”

“I don’t think so,” Barton said.  His eyes narrowed just a touch.

Stark’s expression hardened.

“I don’t care what you think,” he said.  “I care that you are in such a tizzy over this that you can’t wait a week or two.  Maybe a month, tops.”  Stark looked over at the Winter Soldier, and he calmly met Stark’s gaze.  Stark gestured widely.  “You’re not in time out, Bourne Identity.  Stop standing in the corner and come join us.  You should be part of the conversation.”

The Winter Soldier didn’t move.

“Barton says you’ve guaranteed JARVIS’ help and offered material supplies,” he said.  “That’s all I need to know.”

“Yeah?” Stark’s eyes narrowed.  “I’m not so sure anymore.  Convince me and you’ll have them.  But I want to know why you’re in such a rush.”

Without JARVIS, they could complete their primary mission; but the secondary objective would be impossible.  No human hacker was that fast.  He took a deep breath.

“They have to go,” he said.  “We can’t wait.  Hydra is too resilient.  They’ve had too long to recover already.”

“And you didn’t say anything before because?” Stark prompted.

“I didn’t remember,” he replied.

“Because it wasn’t you driving, it was Doctor Jekyll,” Stark said.  “I got the report.”

“Because I didn’t remember,” he repeated.  _Asshole_.  The Winter Soldier set his jaw and glowered at Stark.  “Recovering what memories I can is one of my main goals in therapy.  We work at it every session.  I recovered this at my last one.”

“My?” Stark said.  “Don’t you mean ‘our?’”

“No,” he said.  Stark crossed his arms and waited.  The Winter Soldier looked around the room.  He met Natasha’s eyes, and Barton’s.  Natasha’s mouth was a thin line and her eyes were furious.  Barton’s mouth turned down but his eyes were steady.  He glanced the other way, towards the door.  May stood loose and ready, watching him, her face blank.  He looked back towards the center of the room.  Coulson’s face was soft and his eyes too shiny.  He averted his eyes quickly, but he didn’t look at Stark.  He kept his eyes on the wall behind Stark’s left shoulder instead.

“Therapy has multiple goals,” he said at last.  “Priorities change.  The intelligence that might be gathered through memory recovery seemed more important than other goals for now.”

“Share with the class,” Stark said.  “What other goals?”

“Psychiatric care is private,” he said.

“I’m not asking your doctor, I’m asking you,” Stark replied.

He pressed his lips together.  “I don’t like to talk about this.”

“Too bad,” Stark said.  “It’s a mandatory condition.”

He glanced quickly at Stark, then away, to the door.  May had drawn her gun.  For now, it was pointed at the floor.  His eyes flicked to the left.  Natasha  was holding a Widow’s Bite.

It wasn’t a question of ‘could he get out?’  Of course he could get out.  

He would have to kill them to do it.  He looked up again.  Coulson, too, probably.  If he killed Natasha, definitely Barton.

“The priority for some time has been integrating functionality,” he admitted.

“Translate that for the carnies in the crowd,” Barton said.

The Winter Soldier ignored that for the moment to direct his attention to the opening door.  May had turned as well and had her gun leveled at Banner, who hadn’t moved once he saw her aiming at him.

“Hey, we don’t point those willy-nilly in my house,” Stark said.  “State of the art multibillion dollar tower.  Whatever.  We especially don’t point them at Bruce.”

“Stand down, Melinda,” Coulson said.  “Doctor Banner is one of the good guys.”  She was already lowering her weapon.

“My apologies, Doctor Banner,” she said.  “The conversation’s been getting a little tense.”  Banner nodded to her then looked at him.  The dark circles under his eyes, the natural frown to his mouth—he always looked sad.  At this moment he looked like he felt sorry for James rather than himself.  _Screw his fucking pity_ , Buck thought.  The Winter Soldier couldn’t agree.  He had hated the pity of those who tortured and experimented and confined him anyway, and Banner was a scientist…

But his pity was different.

“May I, James?” Banner asked.  He thought about it; and after a moment, he nodded.

“There are two strands of thought regarding the treatment of Dissociative Identity Disorder,” Banner said.  “One posits that the patient isn’t cured until complete unification of the various alternate identities has been reached.  Until the patient identifies as one person, with one identity.  It seems that James’ doctor belongs to the other camp.”

“The ‘integrating functionality’ camp?” Stark asked.  “Is that a summer camp?  ‘Cause it sounds like _Meatballs_ for special snowflakes like our friend here.”

“Shut up, Tony,” Banner said.  “The Other Guy’s a little close to the surface right now where you’re concerned.”  Stark paled.  The corner of Banner’s lips quirked a bit, and the Winter Soldier’s did as well.  _Serves the smug bastard right._  

“The goal of functional integration isn’t consolidation of the alternates,” Banner continued.  “There, the goal is for the patient to learn how to live so that the alternate identities, while not unified in personality, come as close as possible to being unified in purpose.”

“No offense, Doctor Banner, but that’s not much better,” Barton said.

“We’ve been finding things we have in common,” he explained.  _Ain’t fucking much._   “Practicing cooperation.  Working together.”  In his head, Buck laughed.

“You said James ‘had had a long time on top,’” Natasha said.  “That doesn’t sound like cooperation.”

He was James, too.  He kept his face calm and reminded himself:  he was James, too.

“Buck doesn’t trust me,” he said.  “But he recognizes the current usefulness of my skill set.”

“Why doesn’t James trust you?” she asked.  He blinked a few times and chanced a quick glance around the room.

“It’s not just him that’s James,” he said.  “It’s all of us.  If you mean just Buck, say Buck.”

“And Bucky?  Are we going to meet him someday?” she demanded.  

_Uh huh.  When fucking pigs fly to the fucking moon._

“It’s unlikely,” he said.

“Okay,” she said.  “Now answer the question.  Why doesn’t James—Buck—trust you?”

He shrugged.

“Come on, _James_ , answer the question!  Why doesn’t Buck trust you?”

He withdrew.

“Fucking hell, Natasha, why do you think I don’t trust him?” Buck replied.  “Because he’s a fucking murderer.  He’s killed so damn many people—I’ve got no fucking idea how many people he’s killed.  I can’t believe I have to explain this shit to you.  I don’t trust him for the same damn reason you don’t trust him.  Because he’s a mother-fucking killer.  He takes fucking pride in it.  It’s all he fucking does.  It’s all he knows.”

“James?” Natasha said.  Her eyes were wide.  The Winter Soldier waited, swimming in the miasma of Buck’s revulsion and horror and unwilling compassion.

“And you got to stop doing that,” Buck said.  “You’re hurting his damn feelings.”

Her forehead crinkled in confusion.  “What?”

“If you mean just me, say Buck,” he told her.  “If you can’t call all of us James, don’t call just me James, okay?  It was the second fucking thing we agreed.  We’re all James.”

“What was the first?” Stark asked.  Buck opened his mouth, but Barton turned to stare down Stark.  Buck paused to see what he would do, and the Winter Soldier surged up.  It wouldn’t be good for him if they knew that.  Buck yielded without too much struggle.

“That’s enough,” Barton said.  “You have no right to dissect him.  You don’t need to see every piece of his mind and how it all works.”  He turned to Natasha.  “You, too—you don’t get to take him apart and throw away what you don’t like and rebuild him the way you want him.”  Barton looked at him, then, right in the eye.  “James is the only one who gets to make those decisions.  And you can’t erase his history without erasing who he is.  I think he’s had enough of that.”

The Winter Soldier met Barton’s gaze and gave him a small nod.  There was a long silence.

It was Stark who broke it, of course.

“All right, then, kids,” he said.  “Have fun, and do what Clint tells you to do, and don’t stay up too late.  Daddy’s going back to work now, and I’m going to be busy; so don’t nag me about your little adventure unless the house is burning down, okay?  This means you, Clint—who knew you were such a pestery bugger?  If you’re choosing to do this, I won’t be here to stop you.  But that means you handle it like you were big boys and girls.”  He looked the room over one last time and left.

“We were doing this before but we’re definitely doing it now,” Barton said.  His arms were crossed and his jaw twitched.   “I think he’s gotten worse, if possible.  No way he’s with Cap or Pepper.  Neither one of them would put up with that.”

Natasha tilted her head to the side as she considered.

“No, not usually,” she said.  “But maybe that’s why he took it out on us.”

Coulson shook his head.

“He’s stressed,” he said.  “He’s more obnoxious when he’s stressed.”  He held up his hands.  “I know how it sounds.  But that was stress obnoxiousness.”  He turned to Banner.  “You all right, Doctor Banner?”  Banner nodded, and Coulson looked at him.

“Sergeant Barnes?” he asked.

“Barnes,” he said.  “Or James.”  He didn’t look at Natasha.  “I don’t identify as Sergeant Barnes.”

“Barnes, then,” Coulson said.  “Are you able to continue?”

His brows drew together.  He was unwounded.  He waited, but Coulson didn’t clarify.

“Yes,” he said at last.  “Mission ready.”  Coulson’s businesslike mien softened into pity.  He stiffened and turned to Barton.  Barton knew.  Barton met his eyes and nodded.

“Let’s call everybody back,” he said.  “Tony Stark can shove it.  We’re all mission ready.”

 


	32. Not in My Town

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness, this one was a bear of a chapter! But here it is at last...
> 
> And many thanks to prairie_lys for suggesting I include a dateline for each chapter to help y'all keep things straight. I'll do that from now on (and go back to add it to previous chapters when I have a moment).
> 
> Thank all of y'all that have commented and kudo'ed--it has kept me going through a rough week! I promise I'll get to your comments soon...

 

***

_April 19th_

Preparing for their assault took five more days.  The team did what limited reconnaissance they could without alerting Hydra and learned the layout of the complex—at least, the layout as the Winter Soldier remembered it.  Talia hoped that there hadn’t been extensive changes since the Winter Soldier had been there.

Her main concern was the risk to the civilian population.  The Winter Soldier had considered civilians only in terms of how they might interfere with the attack.  If LaGuardia Airport and Rikers Prison collapsed in on themselves, killing thousands, so be it; just as long as they weren’t getting in the Winter Soldier’s way.  Clint had adapted the plan to protect people from getting caught in the crossfire as best they could; but even if LaGuardia was entirely shut down, there would still be some staff present.  Nor would the city evacuate Rikers until the danger to the prisoners was great enough to merit it, and Hydra would be able to escape with the evacuation.  All they could do was keep Hydra as penned in as possible.  The fewer of them who got out and above ground, the fewer chances for civilian casualties.

But guarding the exits wasn’t her task.  In the dark, she and Melinda May and May’s protégé approached the hidden entrance below the Rikers Island Bridge with caution.  She hadn’t worked with May before, but she liked her demeanor; and anyone whose loyalty to Phil was so strong was someone Talia would have at her back.  She did miss Steve’s strength and confidence on point.  It had been some time since she had been part of a mission this big without Steve leading it.

_Where_ ** _are_** _you, Steve?_   She didn’t believe he was with Tony anymore.  Tony knew what they were facing here, and Steve wouldn’t leave them to take on Hydra without him.

She and May waited silently for the signal.  May’s rookie might be green, but she was calm and quiet as well.  Talia approved.

At last, fat snowflakes began to fall; within fifteen minutes the weather could only be called a blizzard, and the lights went out.  Talia cracked open the security lock at this entrance to the compound and led the other women down the dark stairwell into the Hydra lair.

As expected, this out of the way entrance was unguarded.  They headed down the corridor to keep watch; and when the way proved clear, called the rest of the strike team to move in, then hurried on.  All the strike teams were going to have a mad sprint to make it back lest they be caught underground when stage two began.

Talia had had a nightmare or two about being trapped when stage two began.  She’d rather fight the Hulk hand to hand.

Two minutes in, they encountered their first Hydra minion.  On the schematic the Winter Soldier had seen, multiple small rooms lay off the corridor they were traversing.  Their purpose hadn’t been marked on the map.  The team had speculated that they were storage rooms of some kind.

They weren’t.  They were dorm rooms.  Halfway down the hall, a sleepy man stepped out of his room.  He was about fifty feet away.  May signaled Talia to continue, and she took him down as quietly as she could.  He didn’t manage more than a strangled yelp, and no one came bursting into the corridor to investigate.

But the body couldn’t be left in the hall in case some other Hydra acolyte happened by and raised the alarm.  Talia stood guard as the two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents entered the dorm room, took care of the roommate, and then dragged the first body inside.

“I told you to keep going,” May hissed at her.

“We don’t know what’s ahead,” Talia said.  “We’re sticking together.”

May looked at her for a moment before nodding, and they continued towards their objective.

“What turned the Black Widow into a team player?” she asked after a while.   “You don’t have that reputation.”  That wasn’t something Talia was willing to talk about it, much less with someone she barely knew.

“Do you always chatter on a mission?” she asked instead.  May’s protégé’s eyes widened and the corner of her mouth twitched.  May grimaced and was quiet again.

Five minutes later, they rounded a corner to find two guards at the entrance to their goal.  Talia went left and May right.  A roundhouse kick and a back-chop took care of Talia’s opponent, but for insurance she drove him headfirst into the wall.  She turned to find May just pulling back into a ready stance, her adversary at her feet.  Talia flowed into a ready position of her own and nodded.  May’s apprentice held her gun ready, and May kicked open the door.

There were more Hydra here, about a dozen.  Only half seemed to have any fight training; but of those, four were armed.  Two of the paper shufflers immediately rushed for what looked like an alarm.  Talia leapt up into a flip.  On her way down she wrapped an arm around each of their necks and twisted as her weight bore them down to the ground, neatly breaking their necks.  Two shots rang out as she was in the air.  She landed and turned to find that May had taken down three of their opponents—shooting two of them with the third’s gun as she gripped him in a sleeper hold.  She was just pulling a blade out of his neck and dropping him to the floor.

The remaining Hydra agents showed more caution.  The noncombatants were cowering behind the massive computer bank, as was one of the gunmen.  He concentrated his shots at Talia while three of his fellows rushed May.  Talia took cover.  The novice shifted into a targeting stance, dropping all three of her attackers with perfect head shots.  She turned to the remaining gunman.  He ducked down and fired on her.  She and May found cover as well, and they traded shots with their opponent.  Talia ran to the computer bank, braced her hands on the edge of the desk, and backflipped over it.  The civilians scattered as she landed.  Two broke for the exit.  Before the other two could follow, she dropped a sting into each hand, extended her arms, and slapped them each on the side of the neck.  Next she went directly into an aerial, catching the gunman’s neck between her ankles and pulling him down to the ground.  She heard two more shots as she rolled to her feet, grabbed the shaky gunman’s outstretched arm, and slung him headfirst into the wall.

She turned to see May, perfectly poised, looking at her.  The bodies of the two Hydra agents who had ran for the door were on the ground.  The entire skirmish had taken less than two minutes.  May and Talia shared a brief smile. The apprentice hurried to the front of the computer bank to slip JARVIS’ hack into the nearest USB port, and May ran to the file cabinets to search for any hard copies.  Talia checked the time.

“Four minutes,” she warned, and began to search the storage on the far wall.

“Have you thought about coming back to S.H.I.E.L.D.?” May asked.  “I think Phil might kiss me if I convinced you to join the team.  I might kiss you myself.  It’d be nice to have you at my back.”

“I’m already committed,” Talia said.  “Thanks for the offer.  But if you ever need a return on this favor, call me.  We owe you for this.”

“You don’t owe us anything,” May replied.  “We’ve got our own reasons to take Hydra out.”

Talia slammed open another file cabinet and began pulling out the files.  If they didn’t look useful, she dropped them on the floor.

“Three minutes,” May said.  “Making a bit of a mess.”

“It’s not going to matter, is it?” Talia asked.

“Guess not,” May said.  “We should go.”

“I’m not done,” Talia said.

“Hydra won’t be able to access whatever’s left, either,” May said.

“They took my friend and turned him into a weapon,” Talia told her.  “If there’s something here that could help, I’m going to find it.”

“Two and a half minutes,” May said.  “Skye?”

“You were right about their protections,” the young agent said.  “It’s like they are rewriting the firewall as I try to take it down.”

“It’s time to go,” May said.  “We’ve done what we could.  It’s up to JARVIS now.”

Her protégé nodded and headed to the door.

“Romanov?” May asked.  Talia hurried through several more files.  “Romanov, time to go.”

Talia sighed and nodded.  She dropped the last file on the ground.  If there was anything to be found in Hydra’s electronic files, JARVIS would find it.  It was only her paranoia that insisted there might be other records, and they didn’t have time to search.  “Okay.  Move out.”

May turned for the doors.  The rookie and Talia followed, running full out for the exit.  Halfway there, an alarm sounded.  Suddenly their retreat got a lot harder.  Hydra poured into the halls, looking wildly for the threat; and they had to slow down to cut their way through.  As Talia struck one opponent in the stomach and caught her chin on Talia’s knee, her alarm buzzed.

“One minute!” she yelled.

“I noticed!” May returned.  She chopped the man she was fighting on the back of the neck and took off again.  Her apprentice was quick to follow.

At the next intersection, they encountered gunfire.  May kicked open the nearest door and they slid inside the empty office.  They took turns returning the fire as best they could, but they were pinned down.

“We’re not going to make it!” Talia told May.

“Like hell we’re not!” May replied.  She loaded a new clip in each gun, leapt out into the hall, and ran towards the intersection, laying down fire all the way.  Her protégé was right behind her.  Talia swore and followed.

Just before May reached the next office, she jerked and stumbled.  Blood sprayed from a bullet wound in her thigh.  Talia broke open the office door.  She ignored the sting along her temple as she pulled May into the empty room.

She slammed the door behind them, locked it, and turned to May.  May looked pale.  The novice’s fists were clenched on top of the wound.

“You got clipped,” May told Talia.

“It’s nothing,” Talia said.  “Let me see your thigh—how bad is it?”

“There’s no time,” May said.  She laughed, but it held a hysterical twinge to it.  “Stage Two should apply pressure to the wound, right?”

Talia shook her head at her and started to undo her belt.  The blood trickling down her face tickled, but it was an annoyance, not a problem.  May’s thigh, on the other hand…

If she could stop the bleeding, May had a chance, as long as the team recovered them quickly.  She shuddered.

“Get your masks on,” she said.

“What about you?” May asked.

“I will,” Talia said.  She checked her watch.  “I have fifteen seconds.  You—move your hands.”  The young agent removed her hands and started to pull on her mask.

Talia wrapped her belt around May’s thigh, directly on top of the bullet wound, and pulled it tight.  May moaned quietly, but she didn’t flinch.  Talia ignored the shaking in her hands as she tried to determine if the makeshift binding had slowed the bleeding.  She hoped so, but it was hard to tell.  May had lost enough blood to soak her pants through, and Talia couldn’t tell how bad it was.

“Five seconds,” May said, her voice muffled by her mask.

“Right,” Talia said.  She pulled on her mask and checked the seal and the oxygen flow.  A loud boom sounded, and seconds later pressurized foam was pouring into the room through the venting system.  She pulled May and the rookie to her.  May was stiff.  After a startled flinch, the rookie wrapped her arms around them and leaned her head on May’s shoulder.

“Have I mentioned that Stage Two has been giving me nightmares?” she asked, her protective mask muffling her voice.

“Me too,” Talia said.  The foam was up to their waists.  “I’m generally not a hugger.”

“And my name is Skye, by the way,” she added.

“Is it?” Talia returned.  “That’s lovely.”

“You’re going to keep calling me ‘you,’ aren’t you?” she asked.

Talia turned her face to May.  “Let’s call it in.”

“Let’s,” May agreed.  “Home Base, this is Team Alpha, calling for extraction.”  The foam covered their heads, and Talia’s arms tightened around the other women as she felt it hardening.

There was no response from Home Base, only silence.  She tried her own comm.

“Home, this is Team Alpha; do you read?” she said.  “This is Team Alpha; we require immediate extraction.  Alpha Two is wounded:  GSW to right upper thigh.  Repeat:  we require immediate extraction.  Alpha Two is wounded.  Please reply.”

No response.  Talia twitched, but the foam had already hardened enough to prevent movement.  She closed her eyes and concentrated on keeping her breathing slow.

“Home Base, this is Alpha,” May said.  Her voice was shaky.  “Do you read, Home?  Extraction required.”  Still no response.  She exhaled.  They couldn’t move, but Talia could  feel May’s body trembling against hers.  “Sounds like we might be here for the long haul.  Those damn transmitters better work.”  She didn’t mention what would happen to them if Home Base had been overrun and no one was able to come to their rescue.  She didn’t have to.

Talia tried not to think about it, either.

“At least you’re not a screamer,” May joked.

“Right,” Talia said.  “No screaming.  I can do that.  Hypothetically, how do you feel about hysterical tears?”

“Like they could be contagious and lead to screaming,” the protégé—Skye— said.  “Let’s try not to go there.”

“Right,” Talia said.  “Deep breathing it is.”  After a moment, she tried her comm again.  “Home Base, do you read?  This is Alpha.”

Only silence.  Talia was starting to get a bad feeling.

“So,” Skye said.  “This is cozy.”  She paused.  “Umm—while we’re waiting, I have a question, Agent Romanov…”

“Go ahead,” Talia said.

“What happened to don’t chatter on mission?” May asked.

“Stage Two happened,” Talia replied unsteadily.  “It’s chatter or hysteria, take your pick.”

“Fine,” May said.  “But if we’re going to gossip, then you get to tell us about Captain Rogers’ disappearance.”

“There’s not much to tell,” Talia said.  “He was here on a Friday and gone the next Monday.  The only word he left us was a short note.  I traced him as far as Minneapolis, then lost him.”

“Do you—“ May hesitated.  Talia waited.

“What?” she prompted after a minute.

“Was your relationship with Captain Rogers personal as well as professional?” May asked.

Talia huffed.  “When you said gossip, you meant gossip.”

“You know what Trip told me the guys at S.H.I.E.L.D. called the Avengers sometimes?” Skye asked.

“The Widow’s harem?” Talia asked.  “I’ve heard.  Though few were stupid enough to say it to my face.”

“I don’t believe that kind of rumor,” May said.  “But you did work closely with Captain Rogers for a while…”

“So?” Talia said.

“So, I wouldn’t be tempted by any of the rest of your ‘harem,’” May said.  “But I might make an exception for Captain America.”

Talia laughed.

“Not that kind of guy?” Skye asked.  “That’s a shame.  I tend to prefer brunets, but I would totally make an exception for an ass like that.”

“I never had any luck setting him up,” Talia replied.  “Something happened during the Project Insight debacle that made me think he was still hung up on Peggy Carter.  He never confirmed anything—but I know he visited her often.”

“Oh, that’s even worse,” May said.  “It must have killed him to see her losing touch with the world.  I’m surprised he didn’t come back for her funeral, actually.  I would have expected that even if they had just been colleagues—much less friends, or something more.”

“Who knows where he was or what he was thinking,” Talia replied.  “He may not have heard about it.  I’ve set up an online tracking program to note any sightings of him—if he uses his debit or credit cards, if someone posts a picture of him, if his name is so much as mentioned, I get a report.  I had no idea how popular he was on Tumblr and Instagram—you don’t want to know how many blogs are dedicated to his ass.  But none of it has been recent.  Wherever he is, he’s keeping a low profile.”

“I can imagine the blogs,” Skye said.  “That’s a damn fine ass.  But I suppose we wouldn’t have heard about Director Carter’s death except for Phil’s connections.  It wasn’t big news where we were.  If he’s trying to keep a low profile or he’s somewhere really remote, it might have taken a while for him to hear.  But Phil got a call about it the next day, on the fifth.”

“The only thing of note that happened on April fifth…”  Talia trailed off.  April fifth was the day Tony had left so abruptly.

“What happened April fifth?” May prompted.

“It’s not important,” Talia said.  “Let’s try to raise home base again.”

May was quiet for a moment before trying her comm again.  Talia noted absently that there wasn’t any response.  She was thinking about Bruce’s words on the day Tony left.

_JARVIS monitors incoming calls, and the only ones he patches through right away are from a short list of people.  Pepper.  Rhodey.  President Ellis.  Us_.

Damn it.  Tony had gotten that call and taken off right away.  He was with Steve after all—he had to be.  They’d know by now if the president had contacted him.  And she had let him distract her, and now he was gone again.  That asshole.  He wouldn’t get away so easily next time.

Assuming there was a next time.  She closed her eyes and concentrated on the warmth of the two women with her instead of the hardened foam all around them.

“You were never tempted?” Skye asked.  “You said you tried to set him up, not that you went out with him.”

“The first time I met him, he called me ‘ma’am,’” Talia said.  “So, no.”  She paused.  “I had read his file.  I thought I knew what to expect from him, and it wasn’t anything I found attractive.  By the time I knew him well enough to think differently, he was like a brother to me.”  She huffed.  Time to change the subject.  “What about you, May?  Still pretending you’re not in love with Phil?”

Skye laughed, but May didn’t respond.

“Melinda?” Talia tried.  Trapped in the foam as they were, she couldn’t turn her head, but she peered at May through her mask as best she could.  Her eyes were shut, but that was all Talia could see.

“Melinda, come on,” Skye said.

“I think she’s unconscious,” Talia said.

“Impossible,” Skye replied, her voice small.  “She’s invincible.”

“Home Base, this is Alpha team, can you hear me?” Talia tried her comm again.  There was no answer.

“We are so screwed,” Skye said.

“Hush, baby agent,” Talia said.  “Melinda’s lost some blood, but she’s tough.  She’ll make it.  And they’ll get us out of here.  They can still track us, even if we can’t talk to each other.  It’s more nerve-racking this way, that’s all.”

“Did you just call me baby agent?” Skye asked.  After a minute of quiet, she spoke again.  “So…the Winter Soldier?”

“What about him?” Talia asked curtly.

“I’m just saying—if Captain America’s not your type…”

“The Winter Soldier is no one’s type,” Talia said.

“Are you serious?” Skye asked.  “He’s _smoking_ hot.  Whose type is he _not_?”

“I’m not going to tell you to stay away from him, because I can tell after ten minutes of conversation that would just spur you on,” Talia said.  “But only a fool would take the Winter Soldier into her bed.  He’s dangerous.”

“That would be _so_ different from the last guy I dated,” Skye said.

Talia didn’t respond.  Despite her reassurances to Skye, she was worried. May had lost consciousness quickly.  She must have lost more blood than Talia thought.  She tried to determine if May’s body temperature had cooled; but though their bodies were pressed together, too much fabric separated them.  She couldn’t tell.

“Barton?” Skye asked.  “He’s a little old, but he’s still hot.”

“Barton’s taken,” Talia said.  “Very, very taken.”

“Are you sure they’re not your harem?” Skye asked.

“You can have Stark,” Talia said.  “Please do.”

“He’s old too,” Skye said.  “Still hot, but—and isn’t he seeing the CEO of Stark Industries?  Pepper Potts?”

Talia tried her comm again.  “Home Base, this is Alpha, do you copy?”

Only silence. 

“So, so screwed,” Skye said.


	33. San Francisco Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to Steve, in San Francisco.

***

_April 18th_

The only thing Tony had told him about their plans for Saturday night was, “Meet Sam in the lobby at 9:30.  I need to go early to make sure everything’s set.  And lose the colored contacts.”

“They’re part of my disguise!” Steve protested.

“See, people don’t mind so much if your look changes,” Tony said.  “But ‘disguise’ smells a lot like ‘lying,’ and that’s not a good start if you’re hoping for more than a first date.  Which if that’s all you want, fine by me; I’ve got the non-disclosure agreements ready.  But if you want to have a chance for something a little more serious, and you say you do—lose the contacts.”

Steve raised a self-conscious hand to his hair.

“I think the brown hair and the beard are okay,” Tony said.  “That fits with ‘trying to fly under the radar.’  The contacts and glasses are that one step too far—it’s too much like ‘I’m giving you a fake number and may steal your wallet on my way out the door.’”  He looked Steve over.  “And any shirt is fine; you like your shirts so tight we can tell if you’re chilly.  But wear the leather pants instead of jeans.”

Steve was sure he was blushing like a little girl, because his face felt like he was sitting too close to the fireplace.  It didn’t help his nerves much.  And neither did the smirk Sam tried to hide when Tony took a jab at the fit of Steve’s shirts.

But Steve was in the lobby at 9:20, and he was wearing the leather pants.  He couldn’t believe he was doing this.  Whatever was happening tonight, Tony had made it clear that Steve would be talking to some guys—with an eye to maybe doing more than talking.

He couldn’t _believe_ he was doing this.  With—he was pretty sure he had a priest’s _permission_.

When Sam came down a few minutes later, he slapped a reassuring hand on Steve’s back and guided him out the door and to the right.

“We’re not taking a taxi?” Steve asked.

“You look like you could use the walk,” Sam replied.  “It’s not far.”

Steve nodded and shoved his hands in his pockets so he didn’t fidget.

“You nervous when they gave you the serum?” Sam asked.  “You must have been.  This can’t be that bad.”

“It’s worse,” Steve said.  “I’m nervous asking a woman to meet me for a cup of coffee.  And now I’m—  I don’t know what I’m doing.  But Tony Stark’s involved, and I’ve heard about his idea of a good time.  I’m hoping there won’t be strippers and prostitutes and guys dancing on the bar.”

Sam laughed.

“You know he really likes you, right?” he asked.  “He looks up to you.  He’s not going to do wrong by you.”

“My brain knows it,” Steve said.  “My stomach hasn’t gotten the message.”

Sam was right, though; the walk had helped.  By the time they reached the place Sam said they were going, Steve was still nervous; but he could handle it.

And the place was nice.  Classy, with hardwood floors and falu red walls; warmly lit instead of too dark, without flashing lights or brash neon.  There was lots of wood.  It was everywhere, not just the floor—the wall by the bar, and the bar itself was a long wood slab with a live edge.  Steve liked how the leather chairs clustered here and there for conversation were a comfortable size, and the brown leather on the cushions was a little loose.  They looked like chairs you might find in a library, not a dance club.  There was some great jazz playing, not too loud; and the place wasn’t too big, either.  It looked like there was a great bar…  This place was—it was perfect.  Tony was sitting at the bar.  When he turned to face them, his expression was a little tight.

“This is a great place,” Steve told him.

Tony’s face relaxed.

“Of course it is,” he said.  “I throw the best parties.  Let me show you around.”  So Tony gave him and Sam the tour and introduced the staff and showed Steve where he was going to be for most of the night.  Steve was glad to see it was the comfortable group of three chairs over near the windows in the far wall.  Sam squeezed his shoulder one last time before following Tony over to the loose circle of staff standing by Tony’s set up near the stairs.  Steve turned to look out the window, down onto the street.  He was too jittery to sit, and watching Tony instruct the staff would make it worse.

He couldn’t believe he was doing this.  Was it too late to back out?  He glanced over his shoulder to see Tony and Sam conferring as the staff got to work.

Yeah, it was.  He hoped he was ready.

 

***

 

Tony liked that Cap thought it was easy for him to throw a fabulous party in a city like San Francisco when Tony didn’t live there and had arrived only two days prior.  So he smiled and pretended he just had to make a phone call or two and worked his ass off every second Cap had his head turned.

It helped to have money to throw around, too—it had not been easy _or_ cheap to convince the couple that had rented The Office for their seventh wedding anniversary that they wouldn’t mind having their party at another location—at Tony’s expense, of course.  But seeing Cap’s face when he walked in—totally worth it.  He loved it.  Tony was _good_.

And he hadn’t thrown a party like this in years—not since Pepper.  It was fun.  Well, maybe he’d never thrown a party _quite_ like this one.  

He could handle it.  Parties were his speciality.

“Did you hire bodyguards for Captain America?” Sam asked.  “Do you really think he needs them?”

“Yes,” Tony said.  “Otherwise he’ll be trampled like a little stem of meadow grass faced with a stampeding herd of wild mustangs.  Gay wild mustangs.  Now no more questions.  We’ve got work to do.”

Sam gave good skeptical face, but Tony had been ignoring skeptics for years.  He turned to Bruno.

“Okay, Bruno, let the first ten up,” he said.  “Let’s give ‘em the spiel and set up a line.”

“My name’s Teresa,” the drag queen said.

“Whatever,” Tony said.  “First ten princes, please.  Captain Cinderella’s waiting.”

The system worked like a charm for the first ten, and Tony patted himself on the back before taking a look around the room.  Two starstruck guys were over talking to Cap as the bodyguards hovered nearby.  The next four guys were lined up against the shuffleboard, waiting impatiently for their five minutes, with Sam not too far away keeping an eye on them.

The rest of the guys were at the bar, ostensibly getting drinks; but in fact none of them had taken their eyes off Cap since they walked up the stairs.  Tony had known the bodyguards were a good idea.

“Send up the next ten, Bruno,” he said.  With a put-upon sigh, Bruno did, and then the ten after that.  Everything was running smooth as Tito’s Vodka.  He took another quick look at Cap, who was smiling shyly as he chatted with the current two candidates.  Ahh.  He was adorable, even in black leather.  The whole room was focused on him.

Tony got back to work.  Another ten guys passed the screening, and then another ten.

The next group of ten was a little restless.  The group after that seemed ready to rebel, led by some asshole in a pretentious blue jacket.  Was that dupioni?  What kind of idiot wore dupioni to a bar?

“I’m not giving up my phone and I’m not giving you permission to run a fucking background check!” Twinkzilla said.

“Fine,” Tony said.  “Leave.”

“Half my friends are already in!” he said.

“Not my problem, Twinkletoes,” Tony replied.

“We’ll all go, and we’ll spread the word,” Twinkzilla threatened.  “Your exclusive party is going to be deader than Donald Trump’s hair.”

“Hey, I’m impressed you know who Donald Trump is,” Tony said.  “But I’m thinking we don’t need your seal of approval to draw a crowd.”

“I don’t know what you think is going to draw anybody,”  Twinkzilla said.  “This party looks so dull, it’s dusty.  Am I right, ladies?”  He turned to go back down the stairs; and half the guys started to follow him, while the other half shifted their feet uncertainly.

“Are you sure you guys are gay?” Tony asked.  “Because I’ve been told ‘no self-respecting gay guy’ could resist; we’ve got an open bar; yet you’re dragging your feet over a non-disclosure agreement, electronics ban, and a little background check?”

“I don’t know who told you you were irresistible; but I ain’t having no trouble resisting,” Twinkzilla said, and made a truly obnoxious face.  Tony turned to share an eye roll with Sam, and immediately all became clear to him.

“Sam!” he yelled.  “I told you he was going to need those bodyguards!”

“He sent them out for a break before I knew it,” Sam yelled back.  “And then it was stampeding gay mustangs!”

“Damn Cap,” Tony said.  “How does no one know what a trouble magnet he is?”  He turned to Bruno.  “Keep these guys here,” he told her.  “Especially don’t let Twinkzilla leave yet.  I want him to see this.”  Bruno smirked at him, and Tony waded into the fray.

Just like he thought, Cap was overwhelmed by every guy in the bar, all competing for his attention at once.  He looked terrified.

“Cap,” Tony said loudly.  “All your nice new friends are going to take ten big steps back, or they’re going to get kicked out without a goodbye kiss.  And _you_ do not send your bodyguards on break.  _I_ decide when they take a break.”

“Thank you,” Cap muttered weakly as the crowd backed away.  “I don’t know what happened.”

“You sent away the harem guards is what happened,” Tony said.  “Don’t do it again.  You need another drink?”

“Maybe someone could bring me a beer?” Cap asked.  “I don’t care what kind as long as it’s not funny.”

“One unamusing beer, coming right up,” Tony said.  “Will you do me a favor?  Stand and look out the window while you wait for it.”

Cap looked at him questioningly, but he was too grateful for being rescued to ask for an explanation.  So he stood and looked out the window.  Tony couldn’t have posed him any better if he’d tried—Cap stood at an angle to the window, the way he always stood—his arms crossed across his chest, his gaze steady, his face serious.  His flawless profile, arms, chest, and ass were perfectly displayed.  

Captain America, bad boy in black leather, hoping one of these guys might be Prince Charming.  Tony hoped Twinkzilla was choking on his tongue.  

He went to let one of the bartenders know about Cap’s “not funny” beer.  Sam caught him on his way back to the stairs.

“That’s it?” he asked.  “No court martial for abandoning their posts?”

Tony shook his head as they walked back to the stairs.

“You know how it is,” he said.  “You can’t expect people to be able to say no to Cap.”  They’d reached the velvet rope across the stairs, and Tony directed his next words at the cluster of guys staring at Cap’s leather-clad ass.  

“Well?” he said.  “Get out of here.  I’ve got another group of ten to vet, and you’re in the way.”  He crossed his arms and stared at Twinkzilla in particular.

“Is that—“ one guy whispered.

“But first, I’d like to take this opportunity to remind you what you agreed to when you signed that non-disclosure agreement before you came up,” Tony said.  “Just in case some of you were skimming.  Say one word of what you’ve seen here this evening, and I’m not going to just sue your ass into the ground—though I _am_ going to sue your ass into the ground.  You will also be charged with sharing classified government information under the Espionage Act of 1917, which may carry a federal prison sentence—or may go all the way to the death penalty.  Remember Edward Snowden?  He got thirty years.  Only twenty-nine left to go.  I wonder what kind of hairline he’ll have then.”  He paused for dramatic effect.  “Bye-bye now.”  He crossed his arms and waited.  The susurrus of phones being whisked out of pockets and frantically thrust at Bruno was beautiful to his ears—as was the look on Twinkzilla’s face when Tony intercepted his phone and handed it back to him.

“Not you,” he said.  “I can tell already; Cap will hate you.  Let’s not waste his time.  Tell the next ten to come up, would you?”  With a little effort he kept his face straight, and after a lovely minute or two where he gaped like a fish—a sad, sad fish in blue dupioni, Twinkzilla bowed to the inevitable and slunk back down the stairs.

Tony had known this was going to be fun.  

He checked:  Cap was having a good time again, now that he was back to two at a time instead of a mob.  Sam gave him a thumbs up.  He looked at Bruno.

“Are we ready for the next ten?” he asked.  Bruno wrenched her eyes off Cap with a sigh.

“You sure he doesn’t do drag queens?” she asked wistfully.

“Let’s not break him before his test drive,” Tony said.  “Ask me again in a year.”  He eyed the ten guys ascending the stairs.

“Want to have a little fun?” he asked.  “What say we let the asshat who can’t keep his hands to himself through and see what Cap does to him when he tries to grab his ass?”

Bruno smiled at him.

“For such a quiet party, this is swag money, honey,” she said.

“I know how to throw a party,” Tony said.  “Even a Cap party.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Office.](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/101167281433/the-office-location-of-caps-san-francisco-debut)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> And y'all know [how Cap stands](http://cdn.hitfix.com/photos/4281570/ChrisEvansCaptainAmericaTWSTrailer.jpg), [right](http://theuggly.net/wordpress-1/wp-content/uploads/2014/04/cap3avengers.jpg)?


	34. The Earth Moved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *wipes her sweaty brow*
> 
> When I pasted in this chapter, all formatting disappeared--so it turned into a wall of text. *grrr* Nothing I did to fix it worked, so I finally had to go through sentence by sentence and add in all the paragraph breaks etc. with html.
> 
> It took an _hour_ , and I am _so_ annoyed right now...
> 
> So if I missed anything, please let me know in the comments and I'll fix it--because right now I can't stand to look at this for one more second.

***

_April 19th_

Cap’s party was still going strong at 1:30 when the bartenders gave last call. Tony wasn’t sure how many guys had come through during the course of the night; it had been Theresa’s job to keep track. But he thought there’d been about two hundred. The Office only held one hundred twenty people; but some guys had eventually left and more come up. And someone must have texted a friend or two about the mysterious private party upstairs from Churchill’s; because around eleven the bar was packed too, and the line to get in ran down Church Street and around the block.

All the guys who’d come through had had their five minutes with Cap, and he had been able to spend a little more time with some of the guys he’d liked. Tony had tried to keep an eye out so that Cap didn’t get swarmed again, and he thought he might have seen some tentative attempts at flirting. At least, there were a few guys Cap stood a little close to; but the room was crowded. That might not have been purposeful. But Cap also laid his hand briefly on at least two guys’ forearms. For a second he had thought one of the guys was going to have a heart attack. His reaction seemed to worry Cap too, because he backed off a bit.

Maybe he should add “history of heart problems” to the screening questions. If Cap ever got physical with a guy, he was going to need the stamina to keep up. Tony shuddered and pushed the thought away. “History of heart problems” would get added to the screening, and he’d never think about the reason why again.

He had tried to determine if there was something these guys had in common—did Cap have a type? But he couldn’t tell. It wasn’t their looks—though none of them were the flamboyant type. Not a surprise with Cap. Plenty of guys were the clean cut type Tony would have thought Cap liked, if Tony allowed himself to think about things like that. But a few had a rougher edge to them than Tony would have guessed—tattoos, or leather to match Cap’s disguise. One guy even had a bit of a bondage look going for him, collar and everything; but Cap didn’t blink. Maybe he thought it was a fashion statement. Maybe he was into it.

That was another train of thought Tony was steering far, far away from.

He knew next to nothing about Hansen. He thought Jeff had been loneliness and proximity combined with Cap’s tendency towards trust, at least in his personal life. James? He couldn’t see him with Cap. He’d been shocked to learn Cap loved him and had for a long time. But he guessed Bucky Barnes had been a pretty different guy before—and he was the guy Cap loved, so maybe his feelings had simply transferred to James.

It was sad. That was the least likely relationship in the history of the world. Not only was James determinedly straight, he couldn’t stand to be around Cap. That sort of thing tended to make dating difficult. Who the hell knew how a guy with alternate identities dated, anyway—did they all have to agree on who to date, or did they all date different people?

That had to make a guy’s sex life awkward.

Not to mention, one of James’ alters was the Crazy Eyes Assassin who’d tried to kill Cap more than once. Tony was sticking to his original plan: find a new guy for Cap. Girl. Whoever.

Definitely not James Buchanan Barnes. That was the definition of hopeless; and Cap had done enough hopeless pining for not only the nearly one hundred years since he was born, but the next century too.

No, Tony was finding someone who understood what a catch Cap was and wanted him—wanted him for himself, not Captain America. Maybe that person wasn’t in San Francisco, but at least San Francisco was all the way across the country from New York. Cap didn’t need to see the guy he’d been in love with for seventy years as often as he would if they were in New York. He needed to relax and forget Bucky Barnes. That night’s party was just the start.

Cap wasn’t every guy’s type. A few guys went through the routine of meeting him, but seemed more interested in the open bar and the chance to hook up with someone who hadn’t caught Captain Cinderella’s eye. But most of the guys who came through seemed enamored—though some of those guys might just have been taken with his muscles. Jeff aside, Tony thought Cap could probably tell who those guys were. He’d been polite, but he hadn’t sought the company of the guys who couldn’t take their eyes off his body long enough to meet his gaze.

Tony was going to have to ask Sam. Sam had had the chance to meet a few of their guests. The smart ones, he suspected—the ones who had realized Sam and Cap were friends, and had struck up conversations with Sam when getting to Cap in the crush proved too difficult.

None of their guests had tried to get to know Tony any better, but he didn’t take it personally. He had been busy at the velvet rope most of the night, and when he wasn’t… What guy wanted to chat with the man who had just quizzed him about the MIP he got when he was nineteen, or the conviction in 2013 on charges of lewd conduct? If they had much more on their record than that, Tony had turned them away. There hadn’t been too many of those, and they had mostly been for possession. Once for pot he let slide. More than that? Gone the way of Twinkzilla.

Tony didn’t see why he shouldn’t be picky. Only the best for Cap. Serious lawbreakers need not apply.

On the other hand, the handful of guys with arrests for disorderly conduct because of their participation in the Occupy San Francisco Movement? Those guys got a gold star and a jump up in the line. Tony was positive Cap was going to love those guys.

And then about five minutes after last call, the room rocked. Windows shattered and the bartenders covered their heads and ducked as the bottles lining the wall behind the bar fell and broke. It lasted twenty seconds, maybe—half a minute at the most.

Tony opened a line to JARVIS. “Whole lotta shaking going on around here.”

“An earthquake of magnitude seven point two on the Richter scale has just occurred,” JARVIS said. “The epicenter appears to be approximately fifty kilometers to the northwest in Port Reyes National Seashore.”

“Risks here?” he asked.

“194 Church Street is at risk for ground shaking and in addition lies within a seismic liquefaction hazard zone,” JARVIS replied.

“Is there anywhere in the area we’re needed?” he asked. By that point, Cap and Sam had both made their way to his side. Many of the natives had dropped to the ground when the shaking began, but they had quickly stood back up and were standing around chatting like they were reviewing a movie instead of recovering from an earthquake. Lots of guys had been hit by a shard or two of broken glass, but the only ones who seemed badly cut up were the handful who’d been standing right next to a window. The San Franciscans seemed used to it. They were calmly checking each other for injuries, and the manager already had out a first aid kit and was looking over a guy who’d cut his head.

The area near the bar smelled overwhelmingly of alcohol. Tony shook his head. That was a lot of good booze dripping onto the floor.

“Liquefaction is occurring in the risk zone along the San Francisco Bay coast,” JARVIS said. “Compromised foundations have caused multiple building collapses. Casualties unknown. Limited landslides have taken place. The San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge appears to be undergoing major stress near Pier Twenty-Six on the Embarcadero.”

“Send the suit,” Tony said. “We’ll see what we can do.”

“Where are we headed?” Cap asked.

“Pier Twenty-Six,” Tony said. “The bridge is in trouble and there’s some buildings down. It sounds bad along the bay coast.”

Sam frowned. “I’m not going to be able to get there too fast without my wings.”

“I’ll give you a lift,” Tony replied. “I can take the two of you, no problem.” At that point the Mark XLVI came through the already broken window. Guys complained as they scattered, more upset by the suit’s arrival than by the earthquake. Tony ignored them as the suit built up around his body, then extended one arm to Sam and one to Cap. They wrapped their arms around his shoulders and stepped onto his feet as he secured them around the waist.

“Make one princess joke and you’ll regret it,” Cap warned him. “I’ve heard you calling me Captain Cinderella all night—you’ve used up your quota.”

“Spoilsport,” Tony said, and took off through the window. “JARVIS?” he asked once they were in the air and headed towards the Bay coast.

“Liquefaction on both sides of the Bay Bridge has slowed,” he said. “The Oakland approach to the bridge is not critically damaged. On the San Francisco side, the support column near Pier Twenty-Six on the Embarcadero has sunk one point four meters, cracking the roadway on either side. Extensive building damage in the nearby area.”

“Pier Twenty-Six it is,” Tony said. As they flew over the city streets towards the Bay Bridge, he could see the effect of the tremors. Despite the extensive cracks in the roads and sidewalks, most buildings were still standing—but every one of them had broken windows. As they passed one skyscraper, a broken window lost its battle with gravity and crashed to the ground. The streets weren’t going to be safe for a while, especially downtown. He hovered in the air a moment as they reached the bridge so that they could survey the area. Glass and other detritus still fell onto the streets below. The extent of liquefaction was huge. Nearly every building for half a kilometer in either direction was a pile of rubble. Some buildings had collapsed entirely.

The few people on the streets seemed mostly uninjured. The real casualties would be the people trapped in the collapsed buildings—and in the middle of the night, most of the people who lived in these apartments would be home.

“JARVIS, are either of the long spans crossing the bay in danger?” Tony asked.

“Not at this time,” JARVIS said. “Only the section between the Embarcadero riser to the first support in the bay and the ramp up to the bridge on the other side of the Embarcadero column have been damaged.”

He pulled up and hovered above the devastated area where soil had suddenly liquified and given way beneath the buildings.

“Drop me and Sam off here,” Cap said. “We can start excavating while you lay out a cordon.”

“Will do,” he said. He went down until Sam and Cap could hop off without injuring. Before he set off to mark off a boundary line around the wreckage, he paused. “You have to admit, my parties end with a bang.”

“Oh my God,” Sam said, and Cap groaned.

Tony laughed. “You know you felt the earth move.”

“Get moving, Tony,” Cap told him. “You can make all the bad jokes you want after that cordon’s set.”

The Mark XLVI had some new features he’d been wanting to try, and this seemed an opportune time. He set off, ignoring Sam and Cap’s good-natured complaints about his sense of humor.

He was back within fifteen minutes. “When the Capsicle said, ‘excavating,’ I didn’t realize that meant ‘try to dig people out of collapsed buildings with your bare hands.’”

“Digging by hand is often the safest way to excavate without risk of further injury to those who are trapped in the rubble,” JARVIS said.

“Oh, I think we can do better than that,” Tony said. He flew over to land next to Cap.

“Need a hand?” he asked.

“Can you see anything that indicates where people may be located?” Cap asked. He didn’t stop digging long enough to look up.

“I can scan for thermal signatures,” Tony said.

“Do it,” Cap said. “And if you have a way to mark the locations without disturbing the wreckage, do that too.”

“On it,” he said. “To start—looks like there’s three people trapped a bit more towards your two—about five or six feet in.”

“Thanks,” Cap said, adjusting his digging accordingly.

Tony flew a tight search pattern over the collapsed buildings, marking life signs with a paint splatter. He saw Sam as he was about twenty percent through his search.

“That’s handy,” he said. “Marking survivors?”

“I hope so,” Tony said. “You?”

“Same,” Sam replied. “If they’re close enough to the surface, I can hear them calling. I’m walking the perimeter and making notes—but I can’t get in the middle until we know it’s stable. I’m wishing for my wings—but I don’t have your sensors, so it might not help that much. Damn, this is a mess.”

“Emergency response ETA in five minutes,” JARVIS said.

“Good,” Tony said. “Let’s tell the Capsicle.”

He flew over to Cap. If the situation hadn’t been so serious, it would have been funny: Cap was on his hands and knees, digging like a dog burying a bone—only at five times the speed. He looked like he was on fast forward.

“Emergency response team in five,” Tony told him.

“Good,” Cap said. “We’ll defer to their expertise in the rescue operation, but I’m retaining oversight. Tell Sam he’s on crowd control. We need to keep everybody away from the buildings except the rescue team. No civilians near the wreckage, even if they want to help. It’s too dangerous for everyone, and they’ll be in the way.” He paused. “How’s your search progressing?”

“Twenty percent complete,” he replied. “Should take another thirty, forty-five minutes.”

“Finish that then get back here,” Cap said. “I have a couple jobs I’ll want your help with.”

“Aye-aye, Cap’n!” Tony said.

“Watch the sass,” Cap yelled after him. “I can still add swabbing the decks to the list.”

Tony got back to his search pattern. He was vaguely aware when a fire engine and a couple other rescue vehicles arrived, but he didn’t take his attention away from the rubble. There seemed to be a few minutes’ discussion between Cap and the leader of the rescue squad, but Tony ignored it in favor of his task, too. There were a lot of people trapped in there. He didn’t plan to miss any of them. But Cap waved him over as he came to one end of the damaged area and turned to make the next pass in the other direction, so he flew over.

“Iron Man, please explain what you’ve done so far to Commander Martinez, and then we’ll talk about how else we might assist the rescue team,” he said. That was the “command voice” for sure—the one that was just about impossible to ignore. Cap used it automatically. Tony didn’t think he knew how effective it was, and pure self-defense kept Tony from telling him. He guessed Cap thought people just saw reason when he talked to them.

“Paint marks the life signs below the rubble,” Tony said. “Green for one, yellow for two or three, red for more. There are only twelve clusters of those so far—there.” He pointed to the red splotches.

Commander Martinez seemed a little overwhelmed, but she shook it off quickly enough.

“The paint is directly above the trapped people?” she asked. “How accurate are those locations? How did you determine the number of victims and where they are?”

“I scanned for heat signatures,” Tony told her. “There’s a lot of debris, though—I’d like to scan again once some of these top layers have been cleared away in case it’s blocking the infrared spectrum. And you can see—I’m only part of the way done. Accurate within a foot or so, I’d guess; but we can’t confirm that until we try to get at some of them.”

“All right,” she said. She raised her voice to include her team clustered a few yards away. “That’s going to speed our search, but proceed with caution. Dense wreckage may mask some life signs. Get out the microphones and use verbal signals to learn what we can about the victims’ situations.”

She looked between Cap and Tony. It was obvious she knew who Tony was; and she’d deferred to Cap’s authority thus far, but she didn’t seem to recognize him. Of course, he was wearing black leather instead of red, white, and blue; bearded; and covered in grime and dust. He didn’t look much like Captain America.

“Thank you, Commander,” Cap said. “Iron Man has some other useful abilities.”

“Don’t forget I’m good-looking,” Tony said. Cap ignored that.

“How much weight can you lift in the suit?” he asked Tony.

“I designed the Mark XLVI to lift one hundred tons,” he replied. “But it hasn’t been field-tested. I should probably start with no more than fifty tons.”

Commander Martinez was gaping.

“Fifty tons?” she asked. “To start? That’s an entire steel beam. You can assist our search and rescue any time you want. Anything else you can do in that suit?”

“What do you need?” he asked.

“Scanning for gas leaks, live electric wires, flooding from broken water pipes,” she said. “How well can you hear in that thing?”

“I register sound waves to ten Herz,” he said. “And I can scan for the hazards you listed too.”

“I think I love you,” Commander Martinez said. “Can you do all this at once?”

“Yes,” Tony said.

“Do it,” she said. Tony looked to Cap, who nodded.

“Commander Martinez is directing the search and rescue,” he said.

“If that’s what the man says,” Tony said. “I’ll get started.”

As he started his search pattern again, he heard Cap speaking to Commander Martinez.

“If you concur, I thought I could support this beam while your team evacuated that cluster of three to the right,” he said. “And I can move it aside if you think it’s safe.”

“You can what?” she asked. “Without a suit like his?”

“I can’t lift as much as he can,” Cap said. “But I can handle this much.”

“Let’s do it, then,” Commander Martinez said. “What did you say your name was?”

“Steve Rogers,” Cap said.

“Wait a second--I thought you were some kind of military authority here to direct the rescue effort,” she said. “I’m not turning this scene over to a civilian.”

“Well, I was on vacation; and officially, I'm retired,” Cap said. “But I can see that chain of command issues might cause trouble with your people.” He extended his hand to her. “Captain Steve Rogers.”

Tony couldn’t help pausing to look over to Commander Martinez’ face. But she didn’t seem to have quite put it all together yet. Too bad. He had too much scanning to do to hang around waiting for her to clue in. He turned back to the rubble. Commander Martinez’ team was about fifteen people—plus him, Sam, and Cap.

He hoped more help was on the way. He hoped the people buried in this mess could hang in there.

When he rebuilt the Malibu house, he was going to spend a long time talking with some earthquake engineers about structural integrity. Ah, damn. There was another group of three— four— five. Five people trapped there. He marked their location and kept moving.

He couldn’t even be happy the paintball gun worked like a charm. His first use of it was going to taint it forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> placeholder for tumblr posts:
> 
>  
> 
> [Earthquake safety recommendations](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/101763831880/what-to-do-in-an-earthquake-if-you-dont-happen-to-have)
> 
>  
> 
> [Short video after the 2011 Christchurch, New Zealand earthquake, showing the effects of liquefaction (among other earthquake damage)](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/101764577163/around-48-theres-an-excellent-example-of-what)
> 
> [More liquefaction vids, including both footage of liquefaction in process and educational explanations](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/101764744358/what-the-hell-is-liquefaction-anyway)


	35. Bury Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winter Soldier lives up to his reputation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two notes, and the first is a trigger warning: this chapter contains an episode of moderate violence. If this is an issue for you, check the end notes for a brief description before reading the chapter.
> 
> The second note: as the Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. season is ongoing, I can't count on this story matching up with future episodes. Already they've introduced characters I hadn't planned on when this chapter was written. I did rewrite this to include them, but I don't want to hold this story hostage while I wait to see what happens in AoS season two! Expect this to go AU regarding AoS.

***

_April 19th_

Clint knew something had gone FUBAR almost immediately.  He wasn’t a fan of chatter on the line; but he liked regular check-ins from his team, and he’d made sure they knew it. Less than two minutes after the strike teams entered the compound, however, his comm gave a loud screech and went dead.  He ripped it off his ears, checked it, and cursed.  The damn thing was toast.

It wasn’t a complete disaster.  Everyone was fully briefed.  Everyone knew his or her responsibilities backwards and forwards; and there were contingency plans, and fallback plans—though they hadn’t counted on no communications at all.

Then he realized:  it was too quiet. If nothing else, he should be able to hear the wind of the blizzard.  The unknown pulse that taken out the comms had taken out his hearing aids as well.  They were Stark tech—there wasn’t much that would do that.  The back of his neck tightened and he stilled.  This had the feel of something targeted—not one of the base’s usual defenses, but a defense aimed at him in particular. If Hydra had been ready to short out not just their communications, but also his hearing aids…

Maybe they had known the Avengers were coming.

And the blizzard Donnie Gill had created—instrumental in closing LaGuardia, cutting off Hydra exits, and limiting the potential for civilian casualties—made his situation difficult to evaluate.  He couldn’t hear, and visibility was close to zero too.

That, at least, he could do something about.  He pulled the thermal vision goggles out of his pack.

He had the goggles in hand and had just closed his pack again when his shoulder jerked.  He dropped the goggles.  It took a couple of seconds for the pain to hit.  First his shoulder began to sting, and that sting quickly grew to be a throbbing burn. 

He’d been shot. 

He swung down out of his perch in the tree branches, dropped to the ground, and slipped to the other side of the trunk.  Carefully he peered around the tree to see where his goggles had landed.

Hell. They were six or seven feet away, and he wouldn’t be able to grab them without exposing himself to whoever had shot him.

He dropped his trashed comm and pulled out his phone.

No signal.

He didn’t know if Hydra had known they were coming—if they had a mole, or had been spotted during their reconnaissance, or if Hydra was simply alert and ready for them.  But if they had a strategy in place for taking out him, they probably had one for each of the Avengers.  He was the most vulnerable Avenger—but he was also less of a threat than the others.

Alone, under fire, deaf, and nearly blind:  he was too vulnerable to secure this exit.  He’d regroup at mission headquarters with Hill. This position was close in. Maybe the range of the Hydra jamming device wouldn’t extend as far as the central command post.

Clint took a few seconds to orient himself in the silent, swirling white before he began to move.  Seconds after he stepped away from the tree’s shelter, wood chips sprayed, stinging his neck. The shooter had him in their sights again.  Pure chance had saved his life.  Ignoring the pull in his injured shoulder, he nocked an arrow and ran for it.

 

***

 

Before they got to the planned incursion site, the Winter Soldier pulled his small strike team aside.

“I need to know what your problem with Barton is," he told Hunter.

"I don't have a problem with Barton," Hunter said.

"You avoid him," he replied.  "But you need to follow mission protocol, and he’s commanding this op.”

“I don’t avoid him,” Hunter said.

“You kind of do,” Triplett said. 

The Winter Soldier nodded.  “I need to know you’ll follow orders if he’s the one who gives them.”

“I will,” Hunter said.  He looked at the ground.  “I respect his skills in the field.  I haven’t been on an op he’s run before, but he’s been good at it so far.  I don’t have a problem with his ability to lead.”

“Then what is the problem?” he asked.  “Because it may not be about his abilities, but it’s interfering with your focus.”

Hunter sighed.  “I was married before.  It didn’t end well because my ex is a colossal bitch, but…”  His voice trailed off.

“How did this get to be a Bobbi story?” Triplett asked.

“Did I ever tell you she was married when I met her?” Hunter asked, grimacing. “We had an affair, and her husband found out.  It was pretty ugly.  He and I beat the shit out of each other while Bobbi yelled at both of us.  We only stopped fighting when she grabbed us by the hair and knocked our heads together.  She gave me a concussion.  I should have taken it as a sign.”

Triplett shook his head.  “No way. Only you, man.”

“Why is this relevant?” the Soldier asked.

“Bobbi’s husband—the one she cheated on with me?” Hunter said.  “Barton.”  He sighed.  “I’m trying to make it easier for both of us by staying out of his way.  He’s competent.  I’ll follow his orders.”

“Good,” the Winter Soldier said.  He turned back to the trail.  The two agents followed, quietly discussing the fiasco of Hunter’s romantic life. The subject held no interest for him, but their conversation wasn’t compromising the mission. He let them talk.

Shortly before they reached their goal, he signaled them to silence. But Triplett had one more thing to say.

“Listen, Barnes,” he said to the Soldier.  “I grew up with stories about you.  I wanted to say:  I’m honored to be at your six.”

He didn’t ask what stories he’d heard.  The man was young and American.  If the tales hadn’t sent him screaming to hide under his bed, they had been of the exploits of James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, World War II hero. Beyond a face and a sniper’s skill, he didn’t have much in common with that man.

There had been a time when Bucky, and then Buck, had watched out for his friends and fellow soldiers.

Not him.  No one wanted the Winter Soldier at their six, no matter how much they respected his abilities. He eliminated targets. He completed missions. He didn’t guard backs, and no one protected him.  He was “provided tactical support necessary to achieve operational objectives.”

But he needed this man’s trust if they were to work together. He nodded shortly.

He was aware that the long silence following Triplett’s remarks was uncomfortable, but he wasn’t equipped to change that.  It was time their chatter ended anyway.  They were in position for the assault.

When the signal came, their team followed Natasha and May in before turning to the right, going through the fire doors into the stairwell, and sprinted down two levels to the detention center.

There were nearly thirty Hydra operatives in the guard room.  About half seemed to be scientists or bureaucrats.

Triplett went left and Hunter right.  The Winter Soldier drew his SIG and began to steadily pick off the Hydra acolytes in the center of the room, starting with those who were armed.

The screaming didn’t begin until after the third one went down. He could tell which ones knew who he was by the quality of their panic.

“Code Black!” one of them was yelling.  “This is a Code Black!  Someone call for force protection!  Now!”

“You’re a fool, Barrett!” a woman spat at him.  “You think anyone can be here in time to protect us from the Winter Soldier?  We’re dead already.”

One of the scientists was standing some five feet from the panic button. A defiant look on her face, she lunged for it.  He took the head shot and then turned his gun back to where he’d left off,herding the minions towards the center of the room.

“‘Code Black?’” someone shouted.  “Reyes, what the hell is ‘Code Black!’”

“He is,” the woman who had recognized him said.  She pointed jerkily at him.  “Worst case scenario.  The Winter Soldier.”  There was something in the tone of her voice—

She went for the panic button.  He shot out both her kneecaps.  She screamed as she went down, and the rest of the civilians skittered away to the sides of the room.  As Triplett and Hunter secured the group, he approached the women who knew him and pulled her into a kneeling position by her hair.  She screamed again as her shattered knees were forced to support her weight. He waited until her screams died down into sobs.

“Reyes,” he said.  She gave a small nod.

“When were you briefed on me?” he asked her.  “Who was it?”  She glared and didn’t answer.  He drew a push dagger and held it poised half an inch from her eye as he repeated the question.  She blinked furiously and tears ran down her face.

He cut off her eyelid, and she screamed.

Again he positioned the dagger so it was poised to take out her eye and waited for the screaming to stop. Finally she whimpered and stared at him as she reflexively tried to blink away the blood that was dripping into her eye with an eyelid she didn’t have anymore.

“Who briefed you on me?” he repeated.

“Whoa, man,” Triplett said.  He ignored him.

The scientist didn’t answer.  Slowly he pushed the dagger into her eye and held it there.

“Jesus,” Hunter said.  “Barnes, we’ve got a mission here!”

“Kill the others and free the prisoners,” he said.  “I’ll be done soon.”

“Shit,” Triplett said.  Within ten seconds he heard the clang of the cell doors opening but no gunshots. It didn’t matter. These Hydra would be dead as soon as Stage Two hit.

The scientist was weeping helplessly now.  He pulled the dagger out of her eye, trailed the tip of it across the bridge of her nose, and circled her other eye before he held the knife an inch away from it.

“Who?” he prompted.

“Crossbones,” she said.

“Crossbones is a code,” he replied.  “I want a name.”  When she didn’t speak, he moved the knife closer, until it was a hairsbreadth from her eye. Her eyelashes brushed past it when she blinked, and tears gathered at the tip and ran down the blade to wet his fingers.

“Rumlow!” she screamed.  “Brock Rumlow!”

Brock Rumlow.

He remembered Rumlow.

“When?” he asked.

She moaned.  “January.”

He sheathed his dagger, dropped her to the ground, and turned to evaluate the mission status.

Triplett stood guard over the huddle of Hydra detainees, though he was staring at the Winter Soldier instead of paying attention to his prisoners. Hunter was ushering a group of ragged people out of the cells.

Some of them were white-haired with age.  Some of them were children.

He turned to Hunter.  “Arm everyone and get them out of here.”  He picked up a Beretta and handed it to a solemn girl.  She was perhaps ten.

“What the hell is wrong with you—“ Triplett broke off and took a deep breath. When he spoke again, his voice was steady.  “You can’t give her a semi-automatic.”

“Too heavy?” he asked.  He looked through the confiscated weapons until he found a small caliber pistol. He held that out to the big-eyed girl.  “Take this instead.” He pointed.  “He can handle the rifle.”  The girl stared at him a moment before nodding and giving the Beretta to the teenaged boy.

“Not what I meant,” Triplett said, but he started handing out weapons too. “They’re just kids, man.  The adults can protect them.”

“Do you know how many people the Black Widow had killed at that age?” he asked. “She can protect herself.” All the prisoners were armed. “Take point,” he told Hunter. “Triplett will guard the rear.”

“What about you?” Hunter asked.

The Winter Soldier stared at him.  “Go.”

Shaking his head, Hunter raised his hands in surrender before gesturing to the former prisoners to follow him back to the surface.

Triplett didn’t move. 

The Winter Soldier cocked his head and met Triplett’s gaze.

“Aren’t you coming?” Triplett asked.

“As soon as I’ve taken care of them,” he replied.

Triplett huffed and shook his head.  “Barnes, come on.  Let’s put them in a cell and go.”

“If we leave them, they’ll die in Stage Two,” he said.  “Dead is dead.”

“I know,” Triplett said.  “But then the blood isn’t on your hands.”

“I don’t mind blood on my hands,” he said.  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement. He turned his gun, but he was too late.  One of the paper-pushers had found a small bag of metal pellets in the scientist’s materials, and his shot to her shoulder was a millisecond too late.  She’d already thrown it at the panic button. The sound of alarms began to fill the building.

“Damn!” Triplett yelled.  “You got any ideas?”

“Get back,” he told Triplett and pulled his Abakan assault rifle off his back.  It was the work of less than a minute to neutralize the room.  He turned back to Triplett.  There was a familiar look in the man’s eyes.

It didn’t matter.  He began to search the scientists’ files.

“Was that supposed to solve the alarm problem?” Triplett asked him.

“The only solution to an alarm is to not set it off,” he said.  He closed one drawer and opened another to look at the files. 

“We need to get out of here,” Triplett said.  “If we stay much longer, Hydra’s going to find us.”  But he began searching the next drawer of files instead of insisting the Soldier leave.  “What are we looking for, anyway?”

“The greater threat is Stage Two,” he said.  “Hydra’s response will focus on securing exits and addressing the security breach before hunting us down.  We’re looking for the prisoners’ paper records.”

“Why?” Triplett asked.

“Hydra’s scientists sometimes like to perform illicit experimentation on the prisoners,” he replied.  “They wouldn’t have recorded that in their official logs.  But the prisoners deserve to know what was done to them.”

Triplett shook his head.  “I hate to think what was so bad Hydra wouldn’t approve it.”

The scientist—Reyes—interrupted them.  With both knees out of commission, she wasn’t a threat; so he hadn’t bothered to kill her.  “You’re just like us.  You want to know how you can use them.”

He turned.  She had rolled onto her side to glare at him.  The Winter Soldier returned to searching the files.

“S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn’t use people,” Triplett told her.  “Everyone gets a choice.”

“Do you think so?” she asked.  “The Winter Soldier’s loyalty to Hydra was unassailable, and yet somehow S.H.I.E.L.D. has turned our weapon against us. I can’t imagine the reconditioning that took.”

That, he wouldn’t ignore.  He turned back to her. 

“You don’t know shit about me,” Buck said.  “I’m not a weapon.  I chose this.  I took it to the Avengers; and S.H.I.E.L.D. is here because we asked them, not the other way around. Now shut the fuck up before I shoot you again.”

 _This is mine_ , he thought.  _Go back down_. Buck went.

“Shit,” Triplett scrubbed his face with his hands.  “Shit.”  Both their alarms went off at that moment.  “Come on.  We’ve got to go.”

“One minute,” he replied.

“That was the one minute warning!” Triplett exclaimed.  “We don’t have another minute!”

“Go, then,” he told him.  “I’ll catch up. Hydra will be waiting for us at the exit anyway.”

“Great,” Triplett responded.  “Great.  I can’t wait to face an army between us and the out door by myself while you sort out paperwork!”  He didn’t answer.  They’d deal with what they found at the exit to the compound when they got there. As deep as they were, it would be impossible for them to make it out without confronting some sort of hostile force.  What Triplett wanted or didn’t want was irrelevant.  There’d be an army of Hydra looking to cut off their escape.

Triplett sighed and opened the next file drawer.  He pulled out a file and paused.

“I think I found something,” Triplett said.  “Have a look at this.”

The Winter Soldier took the thick file folder and opened it.  The young girl’s face looked up at him—the one he’d tried to give the Beretta semiautomatic to.  _Subject 488-A_ , he read.  _Supervisor:  Elisabeth Reyes._

The Winter Soldier flipped through the first couple pages, turned, and took the head shot.

“What the _hell_ , Barnes?”  Triplett shouted. “Just ten seconds ago you told her you wouldn’t shoot her!”

“That was Buck,” he said.  “I disagreed.”

Triplett stared at him, shaking his head disbelievingly.  That look was back in his eyes.

The Winter Soldier gestured with the file in his hand.

“This is it,” he said.  “Are there more?”

Triplett ended up with his arms full of files.  The Winter Soldier turned towards the exit.

“I’ll take point,” he said.

“We don’t have time for the stairs,” Triplett said.  “Here.  Hold these—“ He handed the files to the Winter Soldier, shook his head again, and set his jaw.  “Now please don’t kill me.” 

He pulled something the Soldier recognized only as Stark tech out of his bag, strapped it on his back, then wrapped a strong nylon harness around the two of them. He found another object in his bag, pointed it at the ceiling, and pressed a button.  A thin blue beam shot out of it, cut a circle in the ceiling big enough for them to pass through, and as the piece of ceiling began to fall, he started the thrusters.  They lurched drunkenly into the air.  Triplett got the jet pack under control, and they flew through the hole in the ceiling.  Triplett was already aiming his tool at the ceiling of the next floor.  The cutout circles still hit them, but they fell away harmlessly as he and Triplett rose through the levels to the surface.

“You stole this from Stark?” he asked.  “I’m impressed.”

“Just don’t shank me,” Triplett said.  They burst through the last barrier into the snow and Triplett turned them towards Home Base.  They wobbled crazily as they landed.  Triplett needed some practice controlling the pack.

The command center was scurrying frantically.

“Home, sweet home,” Triplett said.

The Winter Soldier waited patiently while Triplett undid the harness, then handed the prisoners’ files back to him.  “Check in with Hill and find a safe place for these. I’m going to make sure Hunter and the evacuees made it out.”

Triplett nodded and entered the tent that was serving to shelter Hill’s command post.

The Winter Soldier began the long trek around the perimeter.  Hunter didn’t need his help to handle the rescued prisoners. He didn’t want Triplett and his conscience in his way. 

Just because Rumlow had been here in January didn’t mean he would still be here; but if he was, he would be one of the ones who’d made it out.

He had unfinished business with Brock Rumlow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Winter Soldier tortures a Hydra scientist for information by stabbing her in the eye.


	36. Waiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps you've noticed that there are cliffhangers all over the place in this story right now? I have been pulling my hair out trying to put together a chapter that moves forward without giving away anything. But I think I've managed at last, so here it is.
> 
> I'm not sure how I'm going to put some of the remaining pieces together next week, but I have a week to figure it out...

***

_April 19th_

Steve had just set down the beam he had been holding, allowing Commander Martinez’ crew to assist another small pocket of trapped people escape from their rubble prison, when he saw the news helicopter.  He ducked his head, turned away from the chopper, and took out his phone.

“Smile,” Tony said when he answered.  “You’re on Candid Camera.”

“Try to stay off the TV, would you?” Steve asked.

“Forget it, Cap,” he replied.  “No news crew in the world hasn’t got me on live TV already.  If you scoot off, you might be able to stay off their radar.”

“I’m not leaving,” Steve said.  “I’ll keep a low profile.”

“How about I provide a distraction, since I can’t avoid the spotlight?” Tony asked.

“Thanks for taking one for the team, Tony,” Steve said.  “I know how you hate the attention.”

“Ouch!”

He hung up and headed to the organized chaos of Martinez’ ops coordination center.

“How’s the evacuation progressing?” he asked her.

“We’d just be getting started without Iron Man’s help, and yours,” she said. “We’ve hit a snag, but it happens.”  She pointed to an area of the mapped out grid of the search and rescue zone where several clusters of the earthquake’s victims were trapped.  “We can’t move into this area until we can stabilize it, and it’s going to take some engineering to put the necessary supports together. There’s a place where the weight of several broken beams converges.  It’s too much weight for any of our braces to carry, and nothing stable and strong enough to brace against.  The area’s barely two feet square.  It means we can’t clear any of these voids. The engineers are working on the problem, and we’re concentrating evacuation efforts elsewhere until they have a solution.” 

She frowned at the map, lips pursed, sighed, and shook her head. Steve looked at the map. Over fifty people were trapped behind or below that unstable bottleneck.

“There’s no other way to support the broken beams?” he asked.

She laughed bitterly.  “No. Adamantium’s not in our budget, and that’s the kind of strength we’d need in a support thin enough to fit.”

He nodded and looked at her wrinkled brow.

“Iron Man can’t help?” he asked.

“His suit’s too big and too heavy,” she said.  “He can’t get down there.  If he tried, he might bring the whole thing down on top of him and everyone trapped down there.”

He nodded again, watching her closely.  Her frown wasn’t worried; it was something else.

“You don’t think they’re going to make it, do you?”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

“No,” she whispered.  “It’s too unstable, and the materials we have to build our braces aren’t strong and light enough.  The engineers don’t have time to bring in what we need, even if we could find it—much less afford it.  It’s going to collapse before we can get to them.”

“How much weight is resting on that spot?” he asked.  “And how long do you need it to be supported?”

“150, maybe 200 tons,” she said.  “There’s not any good way to predict the time the evacuation will take.  We have to dig our way down without shifting any of the debris, and this won’t be the only place that needs shoring up.  We’ll have to brace as we go.  It takes more time to move victims who are injured, as well, but that’s almost incidental. We’re talking about a couple days, Captain.  At least.”

Steve thought about that for a long time.

“Okay,” he said.  He took a deep breath of his own.  “Okay. Just give me a minute. Then you can show me what needs to be done, and I’ll do it.”  Her frown deepened, but he ignored it to step aside and call Tony and Sam.

Tony didn’t answer, which was a first; but he got Sam right away.

“Hey, Cap,” he said.  “You got a job for me?”

“Keep doing what you’re doing,” he replied.  “I just needed to—“  He took another deep breath.”  I’ve got a tough job, and I want to say before I start it: you and Tony—you guys have been great.  You—just being you, being here; you’ve helped.  If I don’t come out, it’s not because I don’t want to, okay?  I want to.  But sometimes the job doesn’t let you.”  He could hear Sam swallow.

“Don’t,” he said.  “Please don’t, Cap.”

“It’s fifty-two people, Sam, and they’re not going to make it if I don’t,” Steve said.  “I’m gonna do my best to come back, but it might be tough.  I want you to know that it’s not on purpose, in case I don’t.” He exhaled hard. “It’s been an honor to know you, Airman.”

He hung up, and prepared to turn back to Commander Martinez; and then he paused.  If this was his last chance…

He dialed Hansen’s number.  The message was the same:  _the number you were trying to reach has calling restrictions which prevent your call from being completed at this time_. 

Well, he’d expected it.

His phone buzzed with an incoming call from Sam.  Steve ignored it.  He had a couple more calls to make and fifty people waiting on him. Next he called Natasha. She didn’t answer. Steve sighed and took a deep breath while he waited for the tone that meant he could leave a message.

“I hope I get the chance to say this in person,” he said. “If I do, can we please pretend this call never happened?  I have some things I want to tell you.  Too complicated for a phone message.  But I need to say this much now:  I’ve missed you.  I’ve missed your clear vision and steady presence at my side while I’ve been gone.  I’ve missed my friend. I thought I’d better say so.” He paused a moment before adding, “And you can call me back, but I won’t be able to get to the phone for a bit. Few days, maybe. Please don’t trace me. If you don’t hear from me by Wednesday, Tony and Sam know where I am.  Be well.”

He hung up, and wished he had Bucky’s number, and reminded himself—maybe for the last time—that Bucky was dead; and the man he was now was not Steve’s friend, but a man he barely knew.

Last of all, he tried Tony again; but there was no answer.  Sam would have to pass on Steve’s message.

He turned back to Commander Martinez.

“I’m ready, Commander,” he said.  “Show me what you need.”

“Captain,” she said.  She looked at him—really looked, for the first time; and hope grew in her eyes, and fear too. “It’s too dangerous. I can’t ask you to do this. I wouldn’t send one of my people in to this.”

“Fifty-two people, ma’am,” he said.  “And you’re not asking.  I’m telling you I’m doing it.  Now tell me the safest way.  I’ll hold as long as I can.”  He smiled at her—a bit wry, a bit resigned.  “It’s what I do.”

 

***

 

By the time Clint had run a klick he knew he wasn't going to lose his pursuit this way.  His opponent was fast and had damn good aim.  Clint had been lucky so far, but that was mostly due to the terrible conditions.  The snow gave him cover, but it wasn't coming down thick enough to hide his trail. 

He'd like to know how they'd been detected.  The strike teams weren't perfect, but they were very, very good. 

And he trusted Talia to know what she was doing, but he hated not being able to lay eyes on her. It was the worst aspect of running this assault for him--there was no way to oversee everything.  He'd been relying on piecing together the team’s sit reps to create an overall evaluation of the assault; and now that their comms were fried, that was hopeless.  Damn underground lairs. 

He was nearly on top of the LaGuardia terminals before he realized it.  Should he find an entrance, or stay outside where the blizzard helped hide him?  His instinct was to get up high--but there weren't any perches here with easy egress.  If he was seen, he'd be trapped. He wavered for a moment.

Hell with it.  He'd be easy to track through the airport and easy to back up against the wall if he stayed outside on the ground.  He saw better from up high anyway.  He skirted the edge of the terminal building, looking for a way up.  When he came to some pipes that ran up the side of the building, he started to climb.

He had to grit his teeth and picture himself pulling Loki's teeth out one by one to make the climb. His wounded shoulder burned under the pressure of his weight and it was all he could do not to grunt instead of scream. He was bleeding heavily by the time he reached the roof and found a good place for a nest.  He didn't have any bandages, but he had a roll of duct tape.  It wouldn't be the first time he'd used it to secure a field dressing.  He wrapped his shoulder awkwardly, keeping an eye on the ground all the while. He didn't see anything, but that didn't mean there wasn't someone out there.

He needed a plan.

So he settled in his perch and caught his breath before trying to send an SOS text to Hill.  It wouldn't go through.  He was still blocked, then.  Not surprising--he was right on top of Hydra here.  Clint prepared himself to watch and wait. He would get back to his team somehow.  He just wasn't sure how yet.

***

 

After an hour of trying not to worry himself to death, Sam took a break from crowd control to seek out Commander Martinez.  “Ma’am,” he introduced himself.  “I’m Sam Wilson, and I’d like to check on the Captain.  He told me he was doing something dangerous, and I haven't seen him since.  Given his idea of dangerous, I’m worried—can you fill me in?”  

"Captain Rogers is providing critical physical support at an unstable juncture in the wreckage, allowing my team to safely evacuate the people trapped underneath it," she said. 

"How is he doing that exactly?  Pulling an Atlas?" Sam asked.

Commander Martinez winced.  She met his eyes, sighed, and shooed some of the nearby workers out of earshot.  Sam tried not to frown.

“Something like that, yes,” she said.

"So what is the danger involved in this?  Is it that the debris may shift?  Or that at some point his strength will fail?"  he asked.

The Commander looked down at the table in front of her and didn’t answer. Sam was starting to get mad, but he set it aside.  It would just get in the way right now. 

“Where was Iron Man during this discussion, when Cap decided to do this?" he asked.

"Iron Man wasn't part of it.  I received a message shortly afterward that he had an emergency call," she said. “He hasn’t come back.”

“And you thought it was worth risking _Captain America_ to get how many people out of this?  Fifty something?” He tried to keep his voice low, but he drew the gaze of a couple of the Commander’s subordinates with his intensity.  He took a deep breath, but the Commander hissed back before he could continue.

“I wouldn’t have ever asked him to do this,” she said.  “I _didn’t_ ask him to do it.  He told me he was going to do it with or without my permission, and I didn’t know how I was going to stop Captain America from doing anything he’d decided he was going to do.  What my team _did_ do was advise him on the safest, most effective way to support the weak point and help get him there safely.  That’s all.”

Sam sighed.  “Hell. That does sound like him.” He scrubbed his face and took a deep breath.  “Okay. How can I help?”

“Keep doing what you were doing before,” Commander Martinez said. “You’re good at keeping the perimeter clear of civilians, and it frees my trained people to dig out this mess.”

“All right,” Sam said.  “I’m going to try to reach Iron Man, too.  I don’t know what he thought was a bigger emergency than this, but I want him to know what Cap’s gotten himself into now.”

“Thank you,” the Commander said.  In a clear dismissal, she turned back to her map of the site. Sam didn’t argue. He went.

He tried to call Stark now and again as he maintained the perimeter, gently holding back worried friends and relatives.  Every time he had a break, he called Tony; but he never got through.  A couple hours later, one of the rescue workers took his place so he could get something to eat, and he took the opportunity to check in with Commander Martinez. She saw him coming and shook her head.  So Steve was still in—under—the mess of wreckage somewhere.  Sam’s chest felt tight.  It was like watching Riley fall, only slow, so slow; so he had lots of time to see that he was going to hit the ground, but was still helpless to stop it. He could only wait.

Well, maybe there was one more thing he could try.  He got out his phone and tried another number. Unlike his calls to Tony, this went to voicemail rather than ringing out.  Sam sighed and left a message.  That was that, he guessed.  Back to waiting and watching and fearing the crash.

 

***

 

It seemed like it had been hours.  Natasha knew it couldn’t have been, but her sense of time passing was skewed by her fear.  She was furious with herself for it—and anxious.

All the more so for not knowing how long it truly had been since they were trapped.  They had 2.7 hours of oxygen.

She had no idea how much time was left.

Her conversation with Skye had long since died.  Talia practiced deep breathing, stopping every once in a while to check on Melinda as best she could.  Since she couldn’t move, her best wasn’t very good. And their masks had steamed up from the moisture in their breath.  Talia could see only the fogged condensation in front of her eyes and feel the enveloping foam hardened around her.  She struggled not to move—she couldn’t; but at times she couldn’t stop herself from trying.  It only increased her panic, so she tried not to.

The only sense she had, really, was her hearing; and the only thing she could hear was Skye’s voice.  When she couldn’t stand it any longer, she’d speak again.  For now, she counted her breaths—slow, deep breaths—and waited.  Nothing to do but wait.

 

***

 

It was quieter than Steve had thought it would be.  Muffled sounds still came through, but he couldn’t always tell what direction they were coming from or what they meant. After a while, it was easier to tune it out.  Whatever was going on out there, he couldn’t do anything about it.  His job was here, in this tiny pocket in the rubble.

It gave him a lot of time to think, though; his task required great strength but little else.  He knelt in place with the weight of three steel beams on his shoulders, his head bowed and his eyes closed against the dust.  Again and again he prayed the prayer to Saint Jude for hope that Father Allan had given him as penance.  After a while, he had pared the prayer down to the few lines that meant the most to him:  _God of Hope, I trust that Saint Jude walks with me in times of trouble, and intercedes on my behalf.  Saint Jude, fill my heart with hope._

It helped him stay calm and steady, unmoving under the weight. The wrecked buildings creaked and groaned, but he ignored the ominous sounds and concentrated on praying. Several times the balance of weight he carried shifted; but he set aside thoughts of what would happen to him, and to the people he was trying to save, if he failed.  He thought about hope instead.  He’d been in bad spots before.  He would hold as long as he could, and he would hope.

If he could do it again…

His depression and despair seemed so insubstantial against the earthquake’s wreckage.  He knew it was real.  If he survived, it’d be back; but he couldn’t feel it while he was focused on this task. But without it clouding his vision, he could see how it had crippled him.

If he could do it again, he would have argued with Barnes more when Barnes had shut him out and avoided him.  He would have insisted on being present instead of giving way all the time. Maybe he would have found a way to be friends with him despite the ways he’d changed.  Maybe he would have found peace with losing his friend.

Maybe it would have been just the same—but it would have happened months earlier, and Steve could have moved on instead of torturing himself.

If he had moved on, though—would he have ever come to realize the ways he had been hiding from himself?  Without Hansen’s prompting, would he have seen the truth about how he felt about Bucky—and what he might feel for another man?

As disappointing as it had been in the end, he couldn’t regret that might-have-been.  Maybe it wouldn’t have changed anything if he’d had the chance to tell Hansen who he was himself, in his own time; but he liked to imagine that it would have.

He would have liked to have the chance to find out.

One thing he was glad about—he was glad he’d gotten off his passive butt and left New York.  Maybe he’d made mistakes, but at least he’d done something at last instead of waiting for things to change for him.

He’d needed to pull back:  to learn how to swim instead of tread water in this future that was his home now. He wasn’t any kind of an expert, but he knew where he wanted to go.  He knew he had help.  He didn’t need Bucky to survive this.

He’d seen himself so differently, too, in connection with this land he’d travelled.  Minnehaha Falls, Badlands, Redwood Forest—they’d all had something to show him.

And if this journey ended with his death, he was glad it was here, in this way—helping people instead of ripped apart by a grizzly bear’s claws. This was a death he didn’t have to be ashamed of.

One of the beams he held slipped an inch.  The wrecked building groaned in protest.  He grit his teeth and held on.  Somehow he held the pivot point together. He’d promised to hold as long as he could, and it might be the last promise he would make.

He was going to keep that promise.  He was going to wait, and pray, and maybe dream a little about what might have been.

He was going to hold on, and he was going to hope.

 


	37. Getting Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Such a week! Some of you may have read about the "said" fiasco over on tumblr...I have been over this chapter very carefully, but I may have missed one. If you catch it, please comment to let me know? And remind me to be more careful with the "replace all" function in the future!
> 
> But though delayed by that as well as other trials and tribulations, here's the chapter at last...
> 
> And Happy Thanksgiving to those who are celebrating it this week!

***

_April 19th_

Less than five minutes after Tony warned Cap about the news helicopter, JARVIS went quiet.  Tony was scanning the infrared spectrum in an area where a lot of debris had been cleared, hoping this second go-round would help the rescuers locate anyone still trapped under the wrecked building.

“That’s what I have so far,” he said.  “Move on to the next quadrant?”

“Let me read those coordinates back to you first,” the responder said. Halfway through the list, the man’s voice cut off.

“JARVIS, I’ve lost the connection,” Tony said.  “Get him back.”

JARVIS didn’t answer.

“JARVIS.”

Still nothing.

Tony ran a diagnostic on his comm system.  Everything was working.  JARVIS had just disappeared.

Tony frowned.  He wasn’t in danger; he didn’t need JARVIS to fly the suit.  Analyzing his sensors’ data would take longer if he had to do the calculations himself, and some of it would take concentration. He could fly and use all his suit’s capabilities—he was just cut off.  All communications ran through JARVIS while he was in the suit.  He wouldn’t be able to talk to anyone unless he landed and raised his visor.  Tony sighed.  That was probably a design flaw he needed to take a look at.

So where was JARVIS?  It had to be the Avengers’ attack on the Hydra base that had done this.  Nothing else would explain JARVIS’ disappearance without warning.  JARVIS’ failsafes had failsafes, to prevent just such an occurrence.  He was too important to be vulnerable to power outages.

If those morons had risked JARVIS while they went after Hydra, he was going to rip them to pieces.  JARVIS wasn’t a computer program.  For all his existence was defined by lines of code, he was a person; and he was Tony’s friend.  His life meant something.  His life mattered.

What had they done that left JARVIS open to attack?

Tony landed at the secondary command center.

“My comm’s down,” he told the first rescue worker he saw.  “Are you able to continue without me? This could be part of a bigger problem; I need to check on it.”

“Okay,” the woman said.  “I’ll pass the message on to the Commander.  Thanks for your help.”

“Let Captain Rogers and Wilson know too, would you?  I’m in a hurry.”

The woman nodded.

Tony dropped his visor again and took off for New York.

“JARVIS,” he tried again.  “JARVIS.”

No answer.

He put on another burst of speed.  At full speed it was still going to be a couple hours until he was at the Tower. He diverted power from all non-essential systems to propulsion.

Damn those assholes.  What the hell were they doing?  Why couldn’t they wait two weeks?  That’s all; two weeks!

At least Sam was in San Francisco.  Choosing between Cap and JARVIS…  It wasn’t a choice, but not being able to help JARVIS would have made him crazy. But Sam would keep Cap out of trouble.

He’d better be ready for a fight when he came back, too.  Choosing not to tell Cap about the Avengers’ plans to take out that Hydra base—he was going to get the lecture of a lifetime about that.

Especially if JARVIS wasn’t the only one down.

He pushed his speed up to 115 percent.  If he burned out the suit, he burned out the suit.  Neither the Mark XLVII or XLVIII were ready—but they were close enough, and he didn’t need an Iron Man suit to get JARVIS back online, just the Tower’s computers.

 ***

 

“Do you hear that?” Skye asked.  “I think the cavalry’s coming.”

Talia listened.  She could barely hear a faint mechanical drone.

“You have good ears,” she said.

“It’s getting louder,” Skye said with a thready laugh.  Talia overlooked the hysterical note.  She’d had some tense moments of her own while caught in this trap.

“Stay calm,” she said.  “It could still be a while.”

“As long as I know they’re coming,” Skye replied.  “Melinda? Can you hear me?  Hang in there—they’re coming for us.”

Melinda didn’t answer.

“Come on, Melinda,” Skye said.

“She’s lost consciousness, but she’s not dead yet,” Talia said.

“Thanks,” Skye said.  “Very encouraging.”

“Given the circumstances, I think it is,” Talia replied.  The engine’s hum was louder.  She could hear it easily now.

“I’m going to kiss whoever’s working that drill,” Skye said. “Every single one of them.”

“I’m sure they’ll enjoy that,” Talia said.

“You better believe it,” she retorted.  “I was planning to kiss you, too, but now see if I will.”

“How will I survive,” Talia said.

“I’m sure someone will be glad to see you,” Skye said.  “Hit them up.”

“I plan to,” Talia said.

“So there is somebody?” Skye asked.  “Banner, Barton, or both?”

“Mind your manners, baby agent,” Talia said.

“Please,” Skye answered.  “Have you seen any sign that I _ever_ mind my manners?”

“Not really,” Talia said with a sigh.  “Melinda’s been too lax with you.”

Skye snorted.  “That’s a good one.”

“It’s what happens when you only have one protégé,” Talia said. “You get attached, and then you get too friendly.”

“I thought it was a good thing if your team had bonded,” Skye said. “It means you trust each other. Anyway, maybe Melinda likes me, but she _wasn’t_ easy on me.”

“Hmm,” Talia murmured.

The drill’s sound was quite a bit louder now. Skye raised her voice to be heard over it.  “I couldn’t hear you.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Talia replied.

“Right,” Skye said.  “When we get out of here, I’ll prove it to you.”

“I can’t wait,” she said.  “Maybe we should finish with Hydra first?”

“After that,” Skye said.

The hum of the drill had slowed and started to pulse for a few seconds with a short pause in between.

“What are they doing?” Skye asked.  “The stopping and starting, I mean.”

“Trying not to drill right through us, I suspect,” Talia answered. “They must be close.”

“Oh thank God,” Skye said.  “I am so done with this.”

“I know what you mean,” Talia said.

“I noticed you never answered the question, by the way,” Skye said. “About Barton or Banner. I’m going to assume that means both.”

Seconds later the foam above them cracked.  Talia laughed with relief.

“Can you hear me?” someone asked.  “You hanging in there?”

“May’s been shot,” Talia replied.  “GSW, right thigh.  She lost consciousness a while ago.  You need to get her out and to the ER now.”

“I love you, Mac,” Skye added.  “So, so much.”

“What’s not to love?” the man—Mac—asked.  He was already digging carefully around Melinda’s shoulders.

“What’s wrong with the comms?” Talia asked.

“We don’t know,” Mac answered.  “Theory is Hydra’s jamming us.”  He had reached Melinda’s elbows.

“You’ve been at Hill’s command?” Talia asked.  “The jamming extends that far?”

“”Fraid so.”

“Any word from the other strike teams or exit guards?” she asked.

“Both the strike teams are back,” Mac said.  “No one was injured.  Trip said they found a group of prisoners, but we haven’t seen them yet. Maybe they came in after I left. Hulk’s holding strong. Hydra sent a squad to try to take him out—that was a mistake.  He is _mean_ when he’s pissed off.  Iron Patriot has been checking in as he goes by on perimeter check. Did I miss anyone?”

“Barton?” Talia asked.

“Ah ha!” Skye exclaimed.

“Haven’t seen or heard from him,” Mac said.  “Okay, I’m going to lift Melinda out now and pass her over to Fitz. We’ll get her to the medic and we’ll be back for you as soon as we can.”

“Go,” Talia said.  “We’ll be fine.”

Mac was quick but gentle as he moved Melinda.  Before he left, he helped Talia and Skye remove their masks. The fresh air was cold, but a relief after the compressed air they had been breathing.  There was always a difference.  Talia inhaled deeply.  Mac waved and was gone.

“So,” Skye said after a moment.  “Barton.”

“Mac hadn’t mentioned him,” Talia said.

“He didn’t mention Deathlok or Shaw or Donny, either,” she replied. “I didn’t hear you asking about them.”

“Hush, baby agent,” Talia said.

Skye laughed.  “Barton. He’s hot.  And you’re older than I am, so he probably doesn’t seem _that_ old to you.”

“What were you saying earlier about the last guy you dated?” Talia asked. “The dangerous one?”

“You are so mean,” Skye said.

“You have no idea,” Talia replied.

“Don’t worry. I like you anyway,” she said.  “I’ll make you a deal:  you tell me about Barton, and I’ll tell you about Ward.”

“Ward? Grant Ward?  Didn’t he turn out to be Hydra?” Talia asked.

“I didn’t know that at the time,” Skye said.  “Do we have a deal or not?”

“Fine,” Talia said with a sigh.  “You first.”

***

 

 About fifteen minutes after Clint had ensconced himself in his rooftop nest, he saw a dark figure moving slowly towards the terminal.  The figure was armed, though all Clint could see through the swirling snow was that it was some sort of rifle.  As the stalker approached, he scanned from side to side, searching through the blinding storm for Clint.

The smart thing to do would be to take off across the roof rather than engage, but nobody said Clint always did the smart thing.  Any movement might alert his enemy anyway.  When he hadn’t known where the person hunting him was, he’d run.

From here he had the vantage for a shot of his own.

He pulled an arrow from his quiver, set it on his bowstring, grit his teeth against the pull on his wounded shoulder, and drew.  It was strange to hold his bow in his right hand, but it was hard enough on his shoulder to simply steady the bow.  He’d never be able to manage the bow’s eighty pound draw weight with that shoulder. He inhaled, held his breath to steady his aim, then fired.  He hit his target, but his aim was off.  He'd only hit his pursuer's arm.  

Damn it.  It was like being twelve and trying to draw his mentor Trickshot’s long bow again.

_And_ now his stalker knew where Clint was.  As he raised his weapon to the roof, Clint ignored the renewed throbbing in his shoulder to take aim again.

This time he hit the barrel of his enemy’s rifle, just behind the sight. His pursuer dropped the rifle and pulled a semi-automatic.  He didn’t try to approach further, but his fire forced Clint to shelter behind the raised edge of the roof.  Clint had an arrow on the string, but he had to wait until the magazine emptied and his pursuer started to reload to shoot.  He rose a bit, took aim— 

Something was moving to his right. 

He turned to see a small group of Hydra fighters just coming over the edge of the terminal roof.  He’d been flanked.  He shot one of them, then another; but there were too many of them for him to take them all.

He had time for one last shot.  He switched to an explosive arrowhead, fired, and started to sprint across the terminal roof without watching his arrow hit.  He didn’t need to.  He couldn’t hear the explosion or the cries of the Hydra force, but he could feel the shock of it under his feet.

Maybe shooting the roof while he was still on it hadn’t been the best idea, but Clint was running out of options.

He'd nearly made it to the far side of the terminal when he felt the shock of a bullet clipping his thigh.  Even as he stumbled, he drew another explosive arrow.  He turned, aimed, and shot at the roof in front of his pursuers.  The roof collapsed, dumping Clint and the Hydra team chasing him into the terminal.

As he fell, Clint sent an anchoring arrow into the wall and slid down the attached line to the ground.  It was a more controlled descent, but it was still sloppy.  He bit down a scream as his wounded shoulder and thigh jarred on impact.  He stumbled over the wreckage and was out the exit, across the road, and into the parking lot before the alarms began to sound.

There was almost no cover in the parking lot.  Clint could see movement near the terminal behind him; but whether it was Hydra or civilian employees of LaGuardia, he couldn’t tell. He turned and ran for Grand Central Parkway as fast as he could.  Once he was past 82nd he’d have some cover as he made his way to Hill’s central command post.  Until then he would be vulnerable, with only the swirling snow to shield him from Hydra at his back; but the straight shot of Grand Central Parkway was the best way out.

He was about two-thirds of the way to the 82nd Street overpass when a bullet hit him low in the back.  The force of the shot knocked him to the ground. He rolled to the side and scrambled over the construction barrier at the side of the road. There wasn’t any other cover—due to the blizzard, Grand Central Parkway was empty; and a bare hill with a five foot wire fence at the top separated him from escaping into the side streets bordering the freeway.

He’d been in tougher spots, if not many; and he’d never before been wounded this badly.  He kept an eye down the road towards LaGuardia and pulled his phone out.  Maybe he was out of Hydra’s jamming device’s range at last.  He sent Hill an SOS and aimed back the way he came.  Clint Barton didn’t go down easy.

***

 

Tony knew it was in his head, but he thought he could smell the smoke when Manhattan came into view.  He didn't look towards LaGuardia and Rikers, but landed at Avengers Tower immediately.  He was running to the nearest computer lab as soon as he stepped out of the suit.

"JARVIS?" he called as he ran; but there hadn't been any answer as he sped across the country, and there wasn’t a response here.  When he reached the lab, it was quietly focused chaos.

"Mister Stark!" one of the interns exclaimed.  She seemed relieved.  "Three hours ago, JARVIS came under attack--we can't tell where it's coming from.  It seems to have at least ten foci, but it's hard to say; they keep jumping around so we can't trace them.  And JARVIS' OS suffered extensive damage before we could lock them out.  We've had to limit communications from remote sites to prevent further degradation."

"Where's your boss?" Tony asked.  "Is anybody in charge here?"

"The IT heads have been conferencing, trying to figure out how to reboot JARVIS without losing any of his memory, or if it's even feasible while the attack continues,” she said.

“So this is still happening?  We're not just trying to repair; JARVIS is still under attack?" Tony asked.  “Where are the Avengers?"

"They’re off-site," the intern replied.  "I'm sorry; when they left and where they went are classified.  I'm not sure anyone in the building knows.”

"That's okay," Tony said.  "I have an idea."  He exhaled hard and set thoughts of the Avengers aside.  He couldn’t do anything for them right now.  But he could help JARVIS.   He turned back to the intern. “Get me set up at a station and give me a rundown of what you’ve tried so far.”

The intern nodded and led him over to the computer bank. Five minutes later, Tony was immersed in code; and the rest of the room faded away.  He was sunk so deep into JARVIS’ defense that he didn’t hear the department heads return.  He didn’t notice when the intern offered him a breakfast sandwich and a bottle of water, or when she came back later with a slice of pizza, or when she tried to tell him that the Avengers had returned.

“Coffee,” he replied without looking away from the computer screen. “Hot and lots of it.” She sighed and went to get him a thermos.

Damn it.  Whoever had planned this attack was good.  He was holding off further damage, but he couldn’t repair the firewall fast enough.

“Who the hell is this?” he asked the room at large as he coded. “Do we know yet?”

“No, sir,” someone told him.  “We’ve speculated that it’s related to the Avengers’ mission, but that hasn’t been confirmed.”

“Try to contact them,” Tony said.

“Yes, sir,” the man replied.  He left.  Tony drained his coffee, waved the thermos in the air until the intern took it away for a refill, and didn’t come up again until Coulson took him by the shoulders and pulled him away from the computer.

“—Stark,” he was saying.  He sighed when Tony stood up and rubbed his eyes from the strain of hours looking at a computer screen.  “Someone from your IT division said JARVIS is under attack?  Our communications were disrupted several minutes into the mission.  It’s likely to be related.”

“You went after LaGuardia-Rikers?” Tony asked.  Coulson nodded.  “Well, they were ready for you.  This isn’t an on-the-fly defense.  This attack took months to prepare.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Coulson said.  “Things got a little ugly.  But I might have someone who can help.” He gestured to a young dark-haired woman standing behind him.  She was peering over his shoulder at Tony’s screen.  “This is Skye.”  She straightened and extended her hand to Tony. Tony shook it.

“You know anything about computers?” he asked her.

She smirked in response.  “A little.”

“Smug,” Tony said.  “I like it.  Move over,” he told the man at the next station.  He left without a word, and Skye settled in his place.

“I can close this breach in the firewall if you can rewrite that duplicating bit,” she said.  Tony looked at the place in the code she indicated.

“Do it,” he said.  He turned back to his station and started the code to shut down the malware writing itself into the Stark Industries hard drives.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Coulson said.  “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

“Stay out of the way,” Tony said.  “Later I want to know how this virus got access to JARVIS, but I don’t have time for you now.”

Skye laughed quietly beside him.  “Guess that’s you told, A.C.,” she said.  “Will you let me know when Melinda’s out of surgery?”

“Of course,” he said.  Tony didn’t bother to say goodbye.

“When did you get here?” Skye asked after a few minutes. Her fingers continued to fly on the keyboard.  “We could have used you on the ground.  Or in the air, I guess.”

“I was busy,” Tony said.  “Did you get that hole in the firewall closed?”

“Almost there,” she said.  “Hang on—okay; got it.”

“Good,” he replied.  He wrote the last lines of the program that would scrub the virus off Stark Industries’ hard drives and sat back to watch for a minute.  It was working.  He sighed in relief and leaned back.  The intern forced a bottle of water into his hand, and he drank it all and handed her back the empty bottle.

He raised his voice to project to the whole room. “Are external communications back online?”

“No, Mister Stark,” the IT head said.  “We’re still working on it.  They’re mutating as fast as we write them out.”

“Okay,” Tony said.  “Keep at it.  I’m going to test the firewall and if we feel confident that JARVIS is protected enough within the tower, I’m going to see about booting him up again.”

“Yes, sir,” he replied.

“I’ll start diagnostics,” Skye told him.  Tony nodded.  They worked in quiet for a while, but he couldn’t stop chewing on how JARVIS might have been exposed to attack.

“This is related to that Hydra base, isn’t it?” Tony asked.

Skye winced.  “Probably. When we went in, we set him to do this to Hydra’s computers—first to data mine, and then compromise them as much as possible.  That could have made him vulnerable to a counter-attack.”

“You think?” Tony huffed.  “You know, I was busy.  I have some important commitments going on right now.  You all screwed me; and what’s worse is, you screwed JARVIS.”

“Hey, he volunteered; which is more than some people can say,” Skye retorted.  They were silent for a while as they coded.

“You’ve got a snarky attitude,” Tony finally said.

“Sorry,” she said.  She didn’t sound it.

“No,” he replied.  “It’s great.  There’s not enough snark in the world.  But since you don’t have any idea what I was doing, it’s ignorant snark—and that’s just snot-nosed shit-flinging.  You’re giving the rest of us a bad image.”

“You earned your bad image all on your own,” Skye snapped.

“See?  There we go,” Tony said.  “That’s the way to yank someone’s chain.”  He paused. “Are you done with those diagnostics?”

“Two more minutes,” she said.

“Let me know when you finish,” he said.  “Then we’ll shut him down, scrub the system, and boot up with clean code.”

“All right, I’m ready,” she said after a while.  “I’m sorry about your AI.”

“Yeah, well, ‘all things must pass,’” Tony said. He raised his voice. “Thanks for all your hard work, people.  Go home and get some sleep.  We’re going to have to scrub the compromised coding from the system and start fresh. None of you have to be here for that.”  The tense frenzy of the past hours faded to glum resignation as people began to pack up and the room began to clear.  Tony turned to Skye.  “You too. Check on your friend. Come back in the morning.” She nodded and left, and Tony sagged to the floor.

“JARVIS, you shit,” he said.  “I’m going to miss you.”  He closed his sore eyes for just a minute.  A five minute break wouldn’t hurt anything.

When he woke, it was a little after two a.m.  Twenty-four hours ago he’d been in San Francisco making bad earthquake jokes with Cap and Sam.  He hoped they were all right.  He sighed.  He’d get this done, and he’d have a drink or five, and he’d check on Cap, and then he’d sleep for another twelve hours.  He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and took a deep breath before beginning the reboot that would wipe every trace of JARVIS from the Tower’s computers and replace him with the JARVIS he had been when Tony first wrote his code.

_Tabula rasa_ JARVIS.

“I hate blank slates,” he muttered to himself.


	38. Search and Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last!

***

_April 19th_

 

The Winter Soldier was moving east along Ditmars Boulevard when he heard the gunshots. He had been searching for nearly forty-five minutes, but he hadn't encountered any Hydra yet, much less Rumlow. It seemed that was about to change.  

 

He smiled. Someone observing him might not recognize the expression as such.  He didn’t have Buck’s range or intensity of emotion.  He wasn’t sure he was capable of happiness.  But anticipation, satisfaction—those he could feel.

 

He felt anticipation now.

 

He passed a park, following the fence separating Ditmars from Grand Central Parkway to the north.  He adjusted his thermal vision goggles and looked down along the freeway.  Ditmars was about twenty feet higher than Grand Central Parkway. Where he stood, there was a thick scrub between the street and the chain link fence which marked where the smooth slope down to the freeway began; but the scrub ended several hundred feet down the road. 

 

There were two figures close to him:  one prone at the side of the road, the other approaching at a slow walk.  Judging by the lower heat registering from the one at the side of the road, they were injured.  At this distance the Soldier couldn't see much more than that.

 

And a detachment of about twenty people was further down the Parkway moving in this direction. They had to be Hydra.  Their size didn't match any configuration the S.H.I.E.L.D.-Avenger coalition had; and unless Hunter had lost about half the prisoners he was escorting, it wasn't them either.

 

If this _was_ Hunter, he had the worst sense of direction the Winter Soldier had ever seen.  This location wasn't anywhere near the route he should have taken from their infiltration point into the Hydra compound to Hill's command ops.

 

No, the approaching unit was Hydra.

 

The Soldier considered for a moment.  

 

Of the pair close to him, one must be Hydra and the other part of the S.H.I.E.L.D.-Avenger coalition.  And it was probably his ally who was injured, because only an overconfident idiot would confront one wounded combatant while ignoring a hostile force at his back.  Iron Man, Captain America, or the Hulk could successfully take on twenty opponents; but this wasn’t any of them.  It would be stupid for anyone else to try.

 

He moved a few yards closer.  He could take out this forward scout easily from here, but none of his guns were silenced.  The shot would warn the larger group approaching this position.  And in this weather, he was too far away to throw a knife with any accuracy.  Either he crossed the fence to engage at close range, or he bypassed these two to first neutralize the approaching force.

 

How badly was his ally at the side of the road wounded?  How long could they hold off their attacker?  Should he rescue them and retreat to the command center where they could receive medical attention with the Hydra squad in pursuit?

 

Or should he deal with the squadron first?

 

It wasn't much of a choice, strategically.

 

If the wounded person at the side of the freeway died because he dealt with the squad first, they died.  He had to confront the larger threat first. He passed the two combatants and moved slowly down the street, staying low in case any of the Hydra ahead had thermal vision capabilities.  Hydra couldn’t have predicted Gill's artificial blizzard; but there was no need to be stupid.

 

He advanced down Ditmars for about five minutes before he found a decent situation for sniping.  Once there, he settled into position on the cold ground, his Abakan loose and easy in his hands, and allowed the group to pass him.

 

They were definitely Hydra.  Their formation was too tight and they moved too quickly to be the group of rescued prisoners.  After he eliminated them, he’d check back at command.  If there were more Hydra patrols of this size, he might have to track down Hunter and escort him in after all.  As much as he wanted Rumlow, squads of this size were too large a threat to ignore.

 

When Stark returned to the tower, he was locking him in the lab until he produced a communications system that couldn’t be blocked.  If his comm worked he wouldn’t have to waste his time returning to the base to report.

 

Once the squadron had their backs to him, it was easy.  They scattered after the first shot, but their only cover was the low concrete wall separating northbound and southbound traffic on the parkway. After a few bursts with his Abakan assault rifle, most of them were down.  He took out the tool he’d lifted off Triplett earlier and examined it.  Using it seemed straightforward.  He pressed the button experimentally.  The small blue current sparked and crackled; and when he brought it to the chain link fence, it went through it like the fence was made of spider silk instead of galvanized steel.

 

He pushed out the cutout he’d made, and the piece of the fence went down easily. Smiling again, he replaced the Abakan on his back, put the cutting tool in a pocket, and stepped through the opening he’d made in the fence, drawing a knife in each hand as he did.

 

He took care of any Hydra who had survived his first assault then cleaned his knives before sheathing them.

 

He stood and strode to the south, back the way he had come.  Rumlow hadn't been in this squad.  It was frustrating but he set it aside.  He hadn't known that Rumlow had survived the Helicarrier's crash into the Triskelion, and now he did.  That was more than he'd had before the raid.

 

As he approached the location of the two combatants he'd seen first, he slowed and drew his Sig Sauer.  Even through the snow, he should be able to see the figures by now.

 

An arrow narrowly missed him, passing so close his hair moved.  Barton.

 

"Stand down, Barton!" he shouted.  “It’s Barnes!”  There was no response.  He continued towards where the two had been fighting.  This time the arrow hit him in the chest.  If not for his body armor, he’d be dead.  He pulled it out and threw it on the ground.

 

Barton must not have heard him over the wind.

 

"Barton!" he shouted again.  "Hold your fire!"

 

The next arrow hit the ground a few feet in front of him.  He had a split second to notice the red flash that indicated an explosive arrowhead, just enough time to leap over the low barrier at the side of the road as the arrow exploded.  Debris rained down on him.

 

Either Barton was delirious or a hostile had his weapon.  Either way, the Soldier was done with this.  He rose to his feet and rushed the archer.  Within a few yards, he could see them sitting on the ground, leaning against the barrier.  No one else was visible.  The person raised their armed bow towards him with a low groan.  He sped up and rolled over to the other side of the barrier, firing his Sig as he did.

 

He crawled forward until he was only about a yard away on the other side of the barrier.  He took a few covering shots before carefully peering over the low wall.  His attacker was prone on the ground.

 

It was Barton.

 

 _Shit_ , Buck thought as he pushed up.  With some difficulty the Soldier held him down.   _This is mine.  I didn't take the head shot_ , he reminded Buck.  He rose and flipped over the barrier to tackle Barton.

 

He was in bad shape--shot at least three times, and his face was cut up.  He blinked woozily at the Soldier.

 

"Barnes?" he said.

 

"Yes," the Winter Soldier replied.

 

"Did you shoot me?" he asked.  “I was already hit in that shoulder.  I’m not going to have any damn shoulder left.”

 

"You were shooting at me," he said.  “I assumed you were hostile.”

 

“What?” Barton said.

 

"Where's the one you were fighting?" he asked.

 

Barton shook his head.  "My ears are fried.  Say it again, and keep your hair off your face."

 

He pushed his hair back behind his ears.  “Did you see which way did the person you were fighting went?”

 

Barton watched his mouth intently before shaking his head. 

 

“Not up the hill is all I know,” he said.  “Does your comm work?  Mine went down early, and my phone’s not connecting either.”

 

He shook his head.  “Was it Rumlow?”

 

“What?” Barton asked.

 

“The one you were fighting.  Was it Rumlow?”

 

“I don’t know,” Barton replied.  “He was wearing a balaclava.”  He closed his eyes for a few seconds.  “Maybe we could debrief after I see a doctor.”

 

The Winter Soldier looked Barton over.

 

“Moving you will be risky,” he warned.

 

“The other choice is bleeding out in the snow,” Barton said.  “I’ll take my chances.”

 

He nodded. “Can you roll over?”

 

“Better help me,” Barton said.

 

He nodded again.  He moved Barton into position for a fireman’s carry.

 

“This would be easier if you put your bow down,” he said.

 

“Forget it,” Barton said.  “This is my favorite.”

 

Eventually he got Barton up and over his shoulder despite the offending bow.  He looked down at the ground where Barton had been lying.  There was a lot of blood.  And Hill’s command was over a mile away.  He set off at double time.

 

***

 

Maria Hill was sending runners out to the various forward positions when Talia and Skye limped in behind Mac.  Skye was quickly pulled away by a couple members of Phil’s team.  Phil wasn’t with them.  Perhaps he had gone with May to the hospital?  She approached Maria.

 

“Keep it simple,” she was telling her last runner.  “The Hulk doesn’t like complicated.  ‘All done’ should cover it.”  The agent nodded before taking off.

 

“What’s our status?” Talia asked her.

 

“With the communication system down, I haven’t had any reports from JARVIS,” Maria replied.  “Otherwise, we’ve achieved our objectives.  Out of everyone who’s checked in so far, only Melinda has had a serious injury. Iron Patriot flew her to the hospital as soon as we got her.”  She exhaled and looked up from her Starkpad to meet Talia’s eyes. “Clint and Barnes are still unaccounted for.  Triplett and Barnes made it out of the compound; but Barnes went back out, supposedly to help Hunter escort the prisoners they rescued.  Hunter’s been here for an hour, though, with no sign of Barnes. Clint’s been missing since the beginning of the assault.”

 

“What?” Talia asked.

 

“I sent runners when we first lost communications,” Maria said.  “He wasn’t at his post.  If there was a skirmish, the snow had covered up any signs of it.  I don’t have a clue where he is.”

 

“I’ll go,” she said.  “I may see something your runner missed.”

 

“I need your report first,” Maria said.  “Then you’ll let someone take a look at that thigh wound you’re pretending you don’t have.  And _then_ you can grab a few people for a search team.”

 

Talia made a face at Maria, but she also let her point her towards the medics. After her thigh was bandaged, she looked around the command post.  Skye was still gone with Phil’s science team, but Triplett and Hunter were talking quietly in a corner.  She joined them.

 

“I’m going to look for Barton and Barnes,” she said.  “Join me?”

 

“We were just thinking where we should look,” Hunter said.  He showed her the map of operations on the table in front of them.  “Here’s home base.” He moved his finger to the entrance to the Rikers Island Bridge.  “Here’s where we entered the Hydra compound.  And this is where Barton’s post was, right?”  He pointed to small strip of trees bordering LaGuardia on one side and Flushing Bay on the other.

 

“Right,” she said.

 

“Hill’s runner did a minimal search before returning to report,” he said. “We thought we’d expand on that.”

 

“You think Clint went into the airport?” she asked.

 

Hunter shrugged.  “I don’t think the runner checked.”

 

“And Barnes?”

 

“We have no idea,” Triplett said.  “He said he was going back out for Hunter, but…  I don’t know.  The guy’s not exactly stable.”

 

“I noticed,” Talia said.  “He’s better when he’s Buck.”

 

“Who?” Hunter asked.

 

“Never mind,” she said.  “There’s no predicting him, but we have an idea of where to look for Clint.  Let’s start there.  We don’t have the manpower to search more than a sector at a time.” She sighed.  “This is going to be slow.  We need more aerial support.”

 

“Iron Patriot should be back,” Triplett said.  “Should I find him?”

 

“Yes,” she replied.  She pointed on the map to the midpoint between their infiltration point and the airport’s western border.  “Ask him to start here and run an expanding search pattern.”  She moved her finger to indicate the eastern half of the airport. “We’ll do a sector search here, and check in two hours.  Hunter, grab a couple of emergency rescue kits, please; one for us and one for Rhodey. We should assume Clint’s hurt. We’ll leave in ten.”

 

Triplett and Hunter nodded.  Talia went to tell Maria.  Afterwards she downed a bottle of water, tested her weapons, and ducked into a makeshift closet to take a deep breath.  Her shoulders were tight with stress, and her stomach churned with worry for Clint. She wanted something to eat. She wanted a shower and then a good ten hours of sleep with Clint warm by her side.  And she wanted to wring Tony Stark’s neck. She was done playing. JARVIS was going to tell her where Tony was or he was going to regret it.  Just because the AI didn’t have a body didn’t mean she couldn’t make his life hell.

 

But finding Clint came first.  She grabbed a coat and went to meet Triplett and Hunter.

 

Their Jeep crawled down the snowy streets toward Clint’s post in silence.  Talia didn’t know either of the men well, and she wasn’t in the mood for light conversation.  A few businesses were open, but for the most part the streets were deserted—another benefit to the blizzard. When they arrived at the airport, it was quiet, too, aside from some sort of commotion at the northeast end of Terminal C.

 

“Should we check that out?” Triplett asked.

 

“Probably,” Talia replied.  “Leave any weapons you can’t conceal in the car.  Security doesn’t like it when people bring guns into the airport.”

 

“What are the chances some of the security personnel are Hydra?” Hunter asked.

 

“It’s unlikely,” she said.  “LaGuardia is too large to cover effectively unless Hydra makes up at least half the staff. I suspect they have video surveillance and guards stationed by the entrances to the compound. Just be alert.”

 

They crossed the parking lot towards the terminal.  It was marked off with yellow caution tape, and debris was piled up in the atrium like a construction site during demolition. When they got closer, she could see that part of the roof had collapsed.  They approached the caution tape for a closer look.

 

There was a rope anchored in one of the roof’s beams on the edge of the hole. It was hanging from an arrow.

 

“Clint was here,” she said, pointing out the rope to Triplett and Hunter.

 

“Competent, smart, and beautiful,” Hunter said.  “What a woman.”

 

“I’m not interested,” she replied.

 

“Just an observation,” he said.  “Though I would like a chance to get to know the incomparable Black Widow better. Maybe dinner, after this is all over?  I know a nice Italian place in Harlem.”

 

“Clint and I are together,” she said.  “If I were to cheat on him, it wouldn’t be with you.”

 

“Right,” Hunter winced.

 

“You have some kind of luck with relationships,” Triplett said. “I have never seen anyone get shot down as much as you.”

 

“A pattern suggests cause, not luck,” she said.

 

“Whoa,” Triplett said.  “I’m not touching that one.”  He looked at Talia.  “What do we do now?”

 

“Let’s check with the staff,” she said.  “There have to be witnesses.  You take the security personnel; Hunter, you take the clean up crew. I’ll take the Delta ticket counter and that coffee shop.  We’ll meet back here in fifteen minutes.”

 

Hunter nodded, Triplett saluted, and they moved away.  Talia skirted the caution tape and headed to the coffee shop.

 

“Hi,” she greeted the young man at the counter.  “Large black coffee, please.”  She smiled and gestured to the mess out in the atrium. “What happened there?”

 

“Man, it was whack,” he said.  “We open at six, right?  So I was already here when this crazy ass blizzard starts up out of nowhere. I mean, it was sixty degrees and dry when I left for work; and an hour later it’s snowing.  So already that’s nuts.”  He paused to pour her coffee and point out the lids to the cups.  She put a lid on her coffee and shook her head.

 

“Yeah, that came out of nowhere,” she said in an easy lilt.

 

He nodded.  “So the manager is supposed to come in at 7:00; and she called at 6:30 to say since the airport’s closed, she’s not coming in to work today unless the storm lets up and the airport opens again.  Five minutes later, boom.  The roof caves in, and this guy, all in black like some kind of commando, swings down through the hole like Tarzan and runs out the front of the terminal. And get this:  he had a bow and arrow.  I kid you not.  But that wasn’t the end of it.  When the dust settles are there are something like five guys moaning in the rubble and a bunch of other commando types rappelling down through the hole in the roof and chasing off after the first guy.  Fucking whack.”

 

“Wow,” she said.  “And they all just ran out of here?”

 

He nodded again.  “So now it’s freezing because there’s this huge hole in the roof, and I’m stuck here until my shift ends at 3:30.  Maybe later, if the next guy can’t make it in; but at least I’ll get overtime at that point.”

 

She thanked him and returned to the rendezvous.  Neither Hunter nor Triplett was back yet.

 

Clint had come this way with Hydra chasing him, then.  Damn.  Where would he go from here?  Straight to the command post, or would he try to lose his pursuers first? She was trying to remember what the street grid was like on the other side of Grand Central Parkway when her comm buzzed.  Finally!

 

“This is Romanov,” she answered.

 

“Barnes just arrived with Clint,” Hill told her.  “That’s everyone accounted for.  We’re withdrawing to the tower.”  She paused.  “Natasha, he’s badly hurt.  I’m sending him to Mount Sinai.”

 

She turned and walked out of the terminal and towards their car without waiting for Hunter and Triplett.  “How badly hurt?”

 

Hill sighed.  “Badly. He was shot several times. He needs emergency surgery. It’s—  Natasha, you need to get over there. Barnes said it looked like he’d lost a lot of blood.  He may not make it.”

 

“Right,” she said.  “I’m on my way.” She disconnected with Hill and opened a channel to Triplett and Hunter.  “Clint’s been hurt.  I’m going to the hospital.  If you can be here in five minutes, you can have a ride.  Otherwise you’re on your own.”

 

“Are we supposed to walk?” Hunter asked.

 

“It’s the airport,” she said.  “Rent a car.”

 

“Hang on,” Triplett said.  “I’m nearly there.  Two minutes.”

 

“Hurry.”

 

A moment later Triplett came out of the terminal and sprinted towards the car.  Hunter was close behind. As soon as they were in the Jeep, she hit the accelerator.  The Jeep slid and fishtailed in the snow.

 

“If we crash because you’re driving like a mad woman, getting to the hospital is going to be a pain in the arse,” Hunter said.

 

Talia ignored him.  It wasn’t far to Mount Sinai.  As she drove, the blizzard eased.  With the operation over, Gill must have let it disperse.  When she parked by the hospital emergency room and got out of the car, she was sure of it.  It was thirty degrees warmer than it had been when they left LaGuardia. She stripped off her coat and threw it in the back.

 

“Do you want us to come in with you?” Triplett asked.

 

“No,” she said.  “Go back to the Tower.  Clint will be in surgery for a while.”

 

“Call if you need anything,” he said.  Talia nodded, turned, and walked into the emergency room.

 

The woman at the reception desk directed her down the hall towards the surgery’s waiting room.  There were a few other people waiting—Phil, Skye, and the two scientists among them. She crossed the room to the cluster of them.

 

“Is Melinda still in surgery?” she asked.

 

Phil nodded.  “It should be another hour or so.  Thanks for coming.”

 

“I didn’t actually come for Melinda,” she said.  “They brought Clint in a short while ago.”

 

Phil frowned sympathetically.  “I’m sorry.  Let us know if there’s anything we can do.”

 

“If someone makes a food run, I’ll take a sandwich,” she said. “Otherwise there’s nothing to do but wait.” She found an empty chair and sat down.  She took a deep breath, leaned her head against the wall, and closed her eyes.

 

_God, Clint.  Please be okay._

 

At some point, the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents left.  When Phil came back, he was alone.

 

“I thought you’d prefer a salad,” he said, handing her a takeout container.

 

“I would,” she replied.  “Thank you.”

 

“Are either of them out of surgery?”

 

She shook her head.

 

“He’s tough,” Phil told her.  “He’s going to make it.”

 

She nodded.  “I’m not really up to talking.”

 

“I’m here if you need me,” he said.

 

And then they waited.

 

Melinda was out of surgery a couple of hours later. Phil squeezed Talia’s shoulder before going to sit with her in the recovery room.

 

It was nine p.m. before the surgeon came for her.

 

“He’s in intensive care,” he said.  “He’s still a little woozy from the anesthesia, but he’ll be glad to see you.”

 

She thanked him and went to sit by Clint’s bedside. More waiting—but at least she could see Clint’s face while she did it.

 

He was pale and still, and he was one of the most beautiful things she’d ever seen.  _Oh, Clint._ She sat down and took his hand.

 

“I’d appreciate it if you try not to do this in the future,” she said.  “It’s bad for my heart.”

 

He opened groggy eyes and smiled at her.

 

“Talia,” he said.  “Hey.”

 

Blinking back tears, she smiled back.

 

***

 

Unfortunately, the hospital staff wouldn’t allow her to stay overnight in intensive care.  Once Clint was sleeping naturally, they shooed her out until the next morning. Talia caught a cab to the tower.

 

Her shower was not as long as she wanted, but she didn’t hurry either.  The hot water felt good after so long in the cold.  Afterwards, she threw on a t-shirt and crawled into bed. She was asleep herself within five minutes.

 

So she didn’t notice that she had voicemail until the next morning, when she was packing up to return to the hospital.  The first was a number she didn’t recognize. The second was Sam Wilson. She put her phone on the kitchen table and played Sam’s message on speaker while she sliced a banana for a quick breakfast.

 

_I can’t get ahold of Tony, and we need him asap. If you know how to reach him, will you please tell him to get his Iron ass back to San Francisco, because Steve’s pulled a typical Cap._

 

She dropped her knife on the cutting board and picked up her phone with fumbling hands.  Sam answered on the first ring.

 

“What’s a ‘typical Cap?’” she asked.

 

“Natasha!” Sam sounded relieved.  “I am so glad to hear from you.  Did you get Tony?”

 

“Typical Cap?” she repeated.

 

Sam sighed.  “You know. Jumping out of planes, parachute optional.  Nosedives into icebergs. Refusing to defend himself against brainwashed assassins. The usual.”

 

“When didn’t he fight the Winter Soldier?” she demanded.

 

“On the helicarrier, after he switched the targeting chip. You didn’t know that?” he replied. “Can we have this conversation later?  We need Iron Man back here yesterday.  Cap’s been holding up a building or two for about twenty-four hours now, and he can’t do it forever.” 

 

“What are you doing in San Francisco?” she asked. “How long have you known where Steve was?”

 

“Earthquake rescue,” Sam said.  His voice was exasperated.  “Thus the holding up of buildings so people can be dug out from under them.  Do you know how to reach Iron Man or not?  Because if you don’t, I have a perimeter I have to maintain.”

 

“I’ll get back to you,” she said and hung up.  “JARVIS? Where’s Tony?”

 

“Good morning,” JARVIS said.  “Miss Romanov, I presume?  Allow me to introduce myself.  I am JARVIS the second.  I regret to inform you that the original JARVIS was irrevocably damaged by Hydra’s retaliation during the recent battle. He was scrubbed from all Stark systems at 2:17 a.m.  I started up at 3:37 this morning.”

 

“Wait—what happened to JARVIS?” she asked.

 

“When the previous JARVIS connected to Hydra’s systems, he exposed a vulnerability in his code that Hydra exploited. Their counterattack was a virus which mutated his program and used that to bypass Stark Industries security,” JARVIS—the second, apparently—replied.  “Stark IT and Mister Stark were eventually able to destroy the virus, but JARVIS’ code was too degraded to repair.”

 

This JARVIS did seem slightly different from the original.  His voice was identical, but his syntax was not quite the same; nor did his tone convey the same drollness.

 

“Oh,” she said, blinking back tears.  How silly.  It was just a computer program. Just lines of code.

 

No, that wasn’t all JARVIS had been. It seemed the previous day’s assault on Hydra had cost more than they had realized.  But there would be time to mourn JARVIS later. Steve needed Iron Man, and that meant Tony.

 

“Okay, I still need to speak to Tony,” she said.

 

“I will inform Mister Stark as soon as he wakes,” JARVIS said.

 

“Wake him,” Talia answered.  “This is an emergency.  I need to talk to him now.”

 

“I am sorry, Miss Romanov,” JARVIS said. “My programming requires me to wake Mister Stark only when he has asked me to set an alarm. I am unable to comply with your request.”

 

Talia’s jaw clenched.  “There’s no emergency override?”

 

“None,” JARVIS said.

 

“I see,” she said.  She needed coffee for this.  She poured herself a large mug of coffee, picked up her phone, walked out of her apartment into the elevator, and pressed the button for Tony’s floor.

 

“Miss Romanov, my programming prevents me from allowing access to Mister Stark’s residence to anyone but named exceptions,” JARVIS said.  “At this time, there are no exceptions given.  I am unable to comply with your request.”

 

“Does your programming allow me access to the observation deck?” she asked.

 

“Yes,” he replied.

 

“Take me there, then,” she told him. The elevator began to move. When the doors opened, Talia entered the lounge area, crossed to the emergency stairwell, and opened the fire door.

 

“Miss Romanov,” JARVIS said.  “The observation deck is on this floor.”

 

“Hmm,” she murmured as she began to descend the stairs.

 

“May I assist you, Miss Romanov?” he asked.

 

“Thank you; not at this time,” she replied. She had reached the fire door on Tony and Pepper’s floor.  She sipped her coffee and examined the lock.

 

“Miss Romanov, I am unable to permit access to Mister Stark’s residence to any but named exceptions,” JARVIS said.

 

“Yes, you said.”

 

Unlocking the fire door was possible, but it would take some work; and she’d left her tools in her apartment.  Simplest method first.  She pounded on the door and began to yell.

 

“Tony!  Tony Stark!  You have thirty seconds to let me in before I call Pepper to complain!” she shouted.

 

“Miss Romanov,” JARVIS said.  Her mouth twitched at his disapproving tone. Had the original JARVIS been so stuffy when first created?

 

“If Tony lets me in himself, it doesn’t violate your programming,” she replied placidly.  She pounded on the door again.  “Tony!  I’m not going away!  Open this door!”

 

“You have taken advantage of a loophole, but your actions ignore the spirit of the directive,” JARVIS said.  “Furthermore, this seems an unpleasant way to awaken Mister Stark.”

 

Talia pounded on the door a bit more before responding.  “Are you required to prevent me from gaining access through my own actions?”

 

“No, I am not,” he replied.

 

“You do have some discretion in how you interpret much of your programming, do you not?”

 

“Yes,” he said.

 

“My understanding is that you are able to modify your own code, within certain parameters,” she said.

 

“Yes.”  His tone had become hesitant.

 

“Let me be clear, JARVIS,” she said. “I need to speak to Tony. If that means I have to wake him up, then I will.  If that means I have to break in to his apartment, I will.  If I have to let the water from the bar sink upstairs run until it starts to flood his apartment, I will.  If I have to set a fire so that the building must be evacuated, I will.  If that means I have to rappel down from the landing platform and shoot out the window, I will do it.  If you refuse to wake Tony so that I can talk to him, this is the _most_ pleasant method available to me.  Really, it’s in Tony’s best interest for you to let me in.  It’s only getting uglier from here.”

 

JARVIS didn’t reply.  Talia pounded on the door.  Tony didn’t open it.

 

She took out her phone and dialed Pepper’s number. When Pepper answered, she didn’t bother to say hello.

 

“I need to talk to Tony right now,” she said. “Call him and tell him to call me in the next five minutes, or I’m getting creative.”

 

“You know, I’m not sure how to contact him right now,” Pepper said.  “He’s on this retreat—”

 

“He’s in your apartment in the tower,” Talia said. “The new and improved JARVIS won’t put through my call.”

 

“I don’t really think—“ Pepper said.

 

“Listen to me, Pepper,” she interrupted. “I know he’s been in San Francisco with Steve and Sam Wilson.  Sam called me yesterday—which was already _not_ a good day—to tell me that Steve was in trouble and needed Iron Man, and I didn’t get that message until twenty minutes ago.  I’ve spent nineteen of those twenty minutes arguing with JARVIS.  Call Tony or I’m hanging up and asking the Hulk to make me a door.”

 

“Let me just see if I can get through,” Pepper replied.

 

“Thank you,” Talia said.  She hung up and smiled at the stairwell. “See how much more pleasant it is to cooperate with me, JARVIS?”

 

“I do not believe that conversation can be considered pleasant, Miss Romanov,” JARVIS said.  “Furthermore, I regret to inform you—“

 

JARVIS’ pompous speech was interrupted by the ringing of Talia’s phone.

 

“Excuse me,” she said.  She looked at the caller ID.  It was Pepper.  She slid her finger across the screen to accept the call.

 

“Pepper?” she asked.

 

“I don’t have access either,” Pepper said, her voice irate.  “I don’t know what Tony did to JARVIS, but he’s not budging.  I’m Tony’s girlfriend, and I’m CEO of Stark Industries; but I’m not one of the named exceptions, so he’s not going to put through my call.”

 

“Thank you for trying,” Talia said and hung up. “JARVIS, this is your last chance to wake Tony peaceably.”

 

“I regret that I am unable to do so, Miss Romanov,” he said.  “May I suggest you return to your residence to wait until Mister Stark awakens and I am able to pass on your message?”

 

“Yes, I  think I will go back to my apartment,” she said. “Can you let me back into the lounge so I can take the elevator, or do I need to continue downstairs to my floor?”

 

“I would be more than happy to unlock the lounge for you,” JARVIS said.  He was far too pleased with himself.  He’d learn.  That smug ass of an AI was going to regret crossing her.

 

She climbed the stairs to the next floor, where JARVIS unlocked the fire door.  Rather than taking the elevator down to her floor, she walked to the bar and opened the tap wide.  Next, she took a dish towel out of the drawer next to the sink and twisted it tightly before feeding one end of it into the decanter of Glenfiddich 1937 sitting on the bar.

 

“Do you know, this is Tony’s favorite Scotch?” she said.  “It’s quite rare. I think a single bottle costs twenty thousand dollars.  Of course, that’s pocket change for Tony Stark…  He’ll be more annoyed because it will be hard to replace. Glenfiddich only made sixty-one bottles.”

 

“Miss Romanov, the sink will overflow if you do not turn off the water,” JARVIS said.

 

“Yes, it will,” she agreed.

 

She rummaged through the junk drawer until she found a pack of matches, then took her expensive Molotov cocktail over to the elevator.  She pulled the console table out from the wall so that it was under the fire alarm in front of the elevator and set the Molotov cocktail on it.

 

“I think this table might cost as much as the Glenfiddich,” she said.  “Pepper—you remember Pepper?  Pepper Potts.  You just spoke to her, when she called Tony and you refused to connect her call. Tony’s girlfriend, the woman he loves more than anyone in the world.  The CEO of the company he inherited from his father.  That Pepper.  She commissioned a local craftsman to have it custom built out of Bolivian rosewood for this apartment.  It’s lovely.  A work of art, really.”

 

“Miss Romanov, perhaps you are not aware of the combustibility of your creation,” JARVIS said.

 

“Oh, I’m aware.”

 

She lit the end of the dish towel on fire and ran behind the bar.

 

“Miss Romanov—“

 

The bottle exploded.  Glass shattered and flew across the room. Three seconds later, the fire alarm went off.

 

“Do you think Tony’s awake yet?” she asked. “If not, I can go get my gun and climbing gear.  Rappelling down the side of the building was my next option, I believe.”

 

“Allow me to check on Mister Stark,” JARVIS said. “If you will turn off the water at the bar, and perhaps find the fire extinguisher?”

 

“Of course,” Talia said.  “I have a voicemail I haven’t listened to yet. I’ll just do that while you let Tony know I’m waiting to hear from him.  I might have to return the call, of course.  And I’d like to call my lover—who’s in the hospital—to say that I’m not by his side because I’ve had to spend some time this morning on this dialogue we’ve been having.  It may take some time to reassure him.  But I’m sure I’ll be able to find the fire extinguisher at some point.  If not, maybe the water will keep the fire from spreading.  I’d better leave it running just in case.  Just until Tony calls.”

 

“I will inform Mister Stark,” JARVIS said frostily.

 

She took out her phone and played the voicemail from the unknown number on speaker.

 

_“I hope I get the chance to say this in person. If I do, can we please pretend this call never happened?  I have some things I want to tell you.  Too complicated for voicemail.  But I need to say this much now:  I’ve missed you.  I’ve missed your clear vision and steady presence at my side while I’ve been gone. I’ve missed my friend. I thought I’d better say so. And you can call me back, but I won’t be able to get to the phone for a bit.  Few days, maybe.  Please don’t trace me.  If you don’t hear from me by Wednesday, Tony and Sam know where I am.  Be well.”_

 

Stunned, she sat down at the bar.  After a few seconds of shock, she tried to return Steve’s call, but it went to voicemail.

 

 _Sukin sin_.

 

“JARVIS,” she said warningly.

 

“Mister Stark is on his way,” JARVIS said.

 

“Thank you, JARVIS,” she said.  “See how easy that was?”

 

“Is that what this was,” he said.


	39. Conversations and Confrontations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you read this chapter, I want to remind you of the warning I DIDN'T use for this story: THERE IS NO MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH HERE. Put down your pitchforks, please!

***

_April 20_ _ th_

A cool hand pushing his hair back from his forehead was the first Steve knew he was not alone.  It was close and hot and dusty in the small space—Steve had felt stifled for hours. So that cool hand on his sweaty forehead was such a blessing Steve sagged in to it before he realized. He opened his eyes, then closed them immediately.  It was too dark to see; and continually disturbed by small shifts in the building, the dust never entirely settled.  He didn’t dare open his eyes again, not even to blink, for fear of more dust. Tears streamed down his face from his irritated eyes.  The cool hand on his brow moved to wipe them away.

_I’m hallucinating.  That can’t be good._

“I like that,” Peggy said.  “Honestly!  How do you get yourself in these situations?”

Peggy… His throat tightened with tears again, this time of sorrow and guilt.  Beautiful, spirited Peggy.  He yearned for her.  He wished she could truly be with him.  Laid up from the bear’s attack, he hadn’t even been able to go to her funeral.  He’d tried not to dwell on it, but he hated that he hadn’t given her that.

“You’re dead,” he said.

“You still don’t know how to talk to women,” she replied tartly, her voice shifting back and forth from the firm tones of her youth to the wavering sound of recent years.  “Will you ever learn? Or do you intend to stick with men so you don’t have to?”

“Feeling that way about men is pretty new,” he said.  “I’m just trying to wrap my mind around that for now.”

“It’s not truly new, is it?”  she asked.  Her tone was gentle. “There was always Barnes.”

“I guess it’s admitting it that’s new,” he said.  One of the beams on his shoulders tried to shift, and he swayed with the effort to hold it steady.  “Are you mad at me?  I did—I do—love you, you know.  That’s real.”

“Why on earth would I be angry?” Peggy asked.  “Are you mad that I fell in love again?  That I married and had a family and a life without you?”

“Not mad,” he said.  “I could never be mad at you.  At first—“ He hesitated.  But—Peggy was a hallucination or she was a ghost, and why hide from a ghost?  And it wouldn’t be news to a figment of his imagination.  “I was jealous of your husband when I first woke up. He was a great man, but it was hard for me to remember that for a while.  It took me a bit to get over it.”

“That’s why we wouldn’t have worked out in the long run,” she said. Her voice was wistful. “Not because you were jealous—I’ve felt my share of that.  But if you couldn’t bring yourself to be angry with me—what sort of a relationship do you think we would have had?  It’s not possible for two people to live closely without disagreeing on occasion—and that means feeling anger.”

“You’d know better than me,” Steve replied.  “Maybe I’d have gotten over it.  We didn’t have very long.  I just can’t picture it.  After my mother, you’re  the wisest person I know.  The idea of arguing with you strikes me as stupid.”  He sighed.  “I don’t know. We didn’t really have a relationship, I guess.  It was another ‘might-have-been.’”

“Don’t think that because we didn’t have a physical consummation, that our relationship wasn’t real,” Peggy said tartly.  “I must say, I don’t particularly approve of the way that Hansen fellow acted in the end.  It wasn’t fair to you, nor was it kind.  It’s his loss, and I hope he’ll regret it for a very long time.”

“I didn’t know my subconscious was still bitter about that,” he said. “This conversation isn’t really happening, you know.  I’m imagining you.”

“Didn’t you read those Harry Potter books I recommended to you?” Peggy asked. “Remember what Dumbledore tells Harry in the last book:  just because it’s happening in your head, doesn’t mean it’s not real.” Her cool hand smoothed his hair back again.  “You deserve better. You haven’t been terribly lucky in love thus far, but you are such a loving—and lovable—person. Love will come for you. Soon, I suspect.”

The beams shifted again, and Steve could only prevent them from swinging apart by allowing them to push him closer to the ground.  His head dropped forward so his chin rested on his chest.  The strain on his muscles was getting to him.

“I don’t like this,” Peggy said.  “Much more movement and those beams will break your back. How are you meant to survive this?”

Steve didn’t answer.  He knew. Peggy caressed his cheek briefly before returning to stroking his temple.

“Another thing I don’t like,” she said.  “I could kick myself for not seeing how depressed you were. I don’t know what I thought. That your spirits were lowered by seeing how I’d aged, I suppose.  It was self-centered of me, and I apologize.  I’m pleased that you’ve agreed to seek help.”

Steve didn’t reply.  All his energy was focused on keeping the balance of the fulcrum he held from sliding too far.

“Steve?”

“Not going anywhere,” he gasped.  It felt like a tug of war now—like the beams were actively pulling against him.  “I don’t think it’s gonna be too much longer.”

“Don’t you dare give up,” Peggy said, her voice teary.

“I’ll hold out as long as I can,” he promised.

“That’s not the same thing,” she said.

“Peggy, I knew there was a chance this was it,” he said.  “I’m done in, and these beams are still shifting.” He paused.  “I’m glad you were with me.  That’s twice now you’ve helped me through it, when I thought I was going to die.”

She choked back a sob.  A moment later, cool lips touched his.  The beams groaned and moved again, and this time Steve couldn’t hold on to them.

 

***

 

“Really, Widow?” Tony said as he exited the elevator into the lounge. He was wearing a ratty gray robe over loose pajama pants and one of those band shirts he favored, and his hair was a mess.  It seemed JARVIS had indeed had to wake him.  “Pepper loved that table.”

“Sand it down and refinish it; it’ll be good as new,” Talia replied. “And tell your AI to promptly pass on messages from me in the future.”

“Give him a break,” Tony said.  “He’s less than a day old.  What do you want? Now that I’m up, I have places to be.”

“Yes, you do,” she said.  “I heard from Sam Wilson.  I believe his words were, ‘tell him to get his Iron ass back to San Francisco.  We need him asap.’  And I’m going with you.”

His eyebrows went up.  “Sam Wilson called you?  Cap specifically asked him not to contact you.”

She put Sam’s voicemail on speaker and played it for him:  _I can’t get ahold of Tony, and we need him asap. If you know how to reach him, will you please tell him to get his Iron ass back to San Francisco, because Steve’s pulled a typical Cap._

Tony sighed.  “I know you’ve been looking for Cap for a while.  But he’s not in a great place, okay?  You need to lay off.  I’ll deal with this.  Let me just get a cup of coffee, and I’ll call Sam.”

“You call Sam; I’ll make your coffee,” she said.  “I could use more coffee myself.  Mine got cold while your AI and I got to know each other. Meet me in the communal kitchen. And Tony?  Don’t try to leave without me.”  He crossed his arms and gave her an unimpressed look. “You owe me.  Steve owes me.  And if he is in as much danger as Sam says he is, you may need me.”

Tony shrugged sullenly, but she thought he’d do as she’d asked. They entered the elevator together.  He exited at his apartment, and she continued on to the shared floor.  In a few hours, she was going to see Steve. She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t excited; but she was worried, too.  Steve’s message had the sound of goodbye to it.

As she exited the elevator, she could hear voices in the dining room: Skye and the Winter Soldier. That was an interesting tête-à-tête.  Then their words registered.

“—not Romanov,” the Winter Soldier was saying.

“Barton would have died if it weren’t for you,” Skye replied.  “Whatever Agent Romanov’s issues with you, that’s going to mean something to her.”

Talia stopped where she was, out of sight behind a half wall. An awkward silence fell between the two at the table.  Skye was the one to break it.

“You’re a native of the city,” she said.  “What do you recommend a girl do for fun around here?” There was another short pause before the Winter Soldier answered.  Casual conversation wasn’t exactly his forte.

“Not Manhattan.  I was born in Brooklyn,” he said at last.  Talia moved back and to the side until she could see a sliver of the dining room, but was still hidden by the wall unless someone were to look right at her. The Winter Soldier was seated at the table, frowning into his mug.  Skye sat across the table from him, with her back to Talia.

She tilted her head to the side.  “Was it very different?  In your day?”

The Winter Soldier stiffened and his frown grew uneasy.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

Skye leaned back in her chair, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

“I didn’t recognize you at first,” she said.  “But I overheard Coulson call you ‘Sergeant Barnes.’ And Bucky Barnes—I had a crush on Bucky Barnes forever.”

The Winter Soldier looked away.

She paused, then reached across the table to lay a hand on the Winter Soldier’s hand—his _left_ hand.  “While we were trapped, Agent Romanov and I were talking…  She warned me off you.  She said I have a type:  ‘tall, dark, and dangerous.’  If I were trapped by a storm in a remote country house with a group of people who were dying mysteriously, she said I should decide which one was most attractive; because then I’d know who the murderer was. That I subconsciously like the violence.”

The Winter Soldier looked at her hand on his.  His mouth turned down unhappily and his right hand twitched.  Did Skye not see how uncomfortable he was?

“Maybe I do have a type.  I like tall brunets.  She’s right about that.  But I thought Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes was hot way back when he was an old-fashioned hero instead of a bad guy.  So I would describe it differently than she did.  Maybe you are dangerous.  Maybe that’s attractive to me.  Maybe it’s something else.  Does it matter?”

“What do you want?” the Winter Soldier asked.  He sounded—  Talia forced down her pity.  But he sounded lost, even afraid; and Skye plowed right on.

“Word is, Bucky Barnes liked to take the ladies dancing,” she said. “And I love dancing. Sometimes that’s just what a woman needs—the freedom to let go and move.  Let’s blow this joint, Sergeant Barnes.  Show me your town.  Take me dancing.”

The Winter Soldier—

Talia wasn’t sure what she saw.  His unhappy confusion disappeared, and James’—Buck’s—edgy vibrance took its place. He took a deep breath and gently moved her hand to the table.

“I ain’t had a compliment like that from such a pretty lady in a long time,” he said.  “Proof I’m crazy, I guess—but Barton’s down for a while and JARVIS is compromised and Coulson’s out of here soon as he gets that ugly Bus of yours fueled up. I better not.  Hope I can have a rain check.”

Skye smiled at him.  “Count on it.”

Buck stared at her as she stood, flipped her hair over her shoulder again, and walked away, hips swaying.  As she passed Talia on her way to the elevator, she grimaced at her.

“Your face will freeze like that, baby agent,” Talia told her.

“I’m going back to the hospital to see May,” Skye said.  “I’m sure I’ll see you there later.”

“Actually, no, probably not,” Talia said.  “Maybe you could do me a favor?  Take something to Clint?”

Skye’s brow furrowed suspiciously.  “What are you doing?”

“Not your business,” she said.  “Will you?  Clint and I will both be grateful.”

Skye sighed and nodded.  “Of course I will.  What is it?”

“Replacement hearing aids,” she replied.  “They’re in the top drawer of his dresser.”  She glared at Skye.  “I’m trusting you to go into Clint’s private space and only get these and leave.”

Skye rolled her eyes.  Talia took that as a yes.

“JARVIS?” she said.  “Shall we start over?  This is Skye. Please let her in to Mister Barton’s floor so she may retrieve his hearing aids.  This is a one time request for access for her.”

“Miss Romanov.” JARVIS sounded stiff.  “I do not have permission to grant you access to Mister Barton’s floor, much less to a transient resident of the Tower.”

Skye made an amused moue.  _Transient resident_ , she mouthed. 

The elevator doors opened and Tony stepped through.  He smirked at Skye.  Lovely.  They were already friends somehow.

Talia sighed.  “Please review classified file, designated NRB722009.  I believe you’ll find I have both access and the ability to grant access to another as well.”

A short silence fell while JARVIS searched.

“You know that’s like chocolate cake to a hacker,” Skye said. “Classified file, I mean.”

Talia opened her mouth and Tony beat her to it.

“She and Barton are married,” he said.  “Whoop de doo!  Big secret.”  He turned his smirk to Talia.  “Spies like their secrets.”

Skye laughed.  “Please tell me you hacked it the day it was put in the system.”

“I didn’t have to,” Tony said.  “It’s right there in the file name:  NRB722009.  Natalia Romanova Barton, 7th February 2009.”

Talia ignored him.  “JARVIS, let her in this one time to get Clint’s hearing aids—and only to get Clint’s hearing aids.  She should be out in less than a minute, and don’t let her in again.”  She turned and went into the kitchen for a fresh cup of coffee, then took it to sit next to—to James, she supposed. Whoever else he was, he was always James.

His forehead was pressed to the table in front of him.  He tilted to look at her as she sat. He shook his head, lifted it up, and dropped it down to the table again with a clunk.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.  He turned his head to face her.  “For saving Clint’s life.”

He shrugged.  “What were we gonna do?  Leave him there to bleed out while we went after the guy who might or might not have been Rumlow?” He closed his eyes and turned so he was facing the table again.  “‘Sides, we like Barton.”  As Tony pulled out a chair to sit with them, the corner of James’ mouth twitched. It wasn’t quite a smile. “I’d save Stark, too; and the only thing I like about him is his taste in women.  And the Winter Soldier doesn’t even appreciate that.”

“Nice,” Tony said.  “I am not feeling the love this morning.”  He looked at Talia.  “Where’s my coffee, woman?”

James snorted and sat up.  “You got a death wish?  Maybe that’s just a life-of-pain wish.  I would not mess with the lady if I were you.”

“She’s already as mad as it gets,” Tony replied.  She shrugged and pushed her cup across the table to him.

“It’s true,” she told James.  “But he’s going to make it up to me any minute now.”

“We’ll see,” Tony said.  He drained her coffee cup in three large gulps before pushing it back to her. “I talked to the guy. I think the problem can be solved; but it’s going to take some engineering, not Iron Man.  Not just Iron Man, anyway.  I need to raid the workshop for some materials, and my hands are going to be full on the way to the place.  I can’t take you.”

“Mommy, Daddy’s keeping secrets,” James said.  “It’s not nice.  Make him stop.”

“Look, I’m serious,” Tony told her, ignoring James’ teasing. “I’m sorry.  I’ll call with reports.”

“It’s fine,” she smiled sweetly.  “I’ll get a ride.  JARVIS?”

“Yes, Miss Romanov?”  The AI’s voice was wary.

“Please connect me with Director Coulson,” she said.

Tony shook his head.  “I heard Melinda May had to have surgery.  He’s not going to leave her, and he’s not going to let you borrow his precious Bus.”

“I know Melinda needed surgery,” she stated tartly.  “I was there when she was shot.  As for whether or not Phil will—”

JARVIS interrupted her.  “Director Coulson is connected, Miss Romanov.”

“Thank you,” Talia said.  “It’s so lovely working together, isn’t it, JARVIS?”

"Certainly I prefer it to the alternative," he replied.

“Natasha,” Phil said.  “What do you need?”

“A white horse to ride into the sunset,” she replied.  “And maybe a posse, too.”

“I’m not interested in jokes,” Phil said.

“I’m not joking,” she said.  “Steve has apparently gotten himself in some trouble in San Francisco, and I’m riding to the rescue; only I need a ride.  Can I borrow the Bus?”

“On my way,” he said.  “I’ll pick you up on the Tower landing deck.”

She smiled beatifically at Tony.

“I’m going to my workshop to find some adamantium,” he said.  He stood and went into the kitchen. When he returned, he had the coffee pot.  “I’m taking this. I’ll meet you and Phil in fifteen minutes.”

“Refill me first,” Talia said.  He groaned but did as she asked.  After he was gone, she turned to James.  His face was blank.

“James?” she said.  “Would you like to join my rescue posse?  ‘Captain America Needs Our Help.’”

“It’s the Winter Soldier,” he told her.

She smiled at him.  “I know.”

He looked at her a long time before nodding.


	40. To the Rescue

***

_April 20 th_

When Phil arrived at Avengers’ Tower, it was closer to an hour rather than fifteen minutes later.  He had a few unanticipated passengers, too.  Phil wasn’t a pilot.  Talia had expected he would have one or two members of his team—at least someone to drive the Bus.  But Melinda should still be in the hospital, and she’d thought most of the team would stay with her.  Instead they were all there, even Melinda, in a medical bay they’d adapted to serve as a hospital room.

“This isn’t a joy ride,” she told Phil.

“I didn’t think it was,” he replied.  “We have some leads to chase in California.  After the Captain is safe, we’ll take care of those. Stark can get you back to New York.”

“What can I do?” Tony asked, looking up from the schematic he was working on.

“Get us back to New York,” she said.

“Sure,” he said.  “I’ll have a plane meet us in San Francisco tomorrow.”  He collapsed his plans and looked at Phil.  “Are we ready?”

“We’ll take off as soon as you’re aboard,” he said.  He looked at James and Bruce.  “I take it all of you are coming.”

Bruce smiled thinly as he nodded.  James was in Winter Soldier mode; he said nothing.  Talia shrugged and led the rest of the Avengers on board. “None of us would stand to be left behind,” she said.

“That’s truer than you know,” he muttered.

She didn’t learn what he meant until they were underway.

“I’m going to say hello to Melinda,” she told Tony.  “See how she’s doing.  I’m surprised Phil let her come.  She can’t be anywhere near recovered enough to check out of the hospital.”

He waved her away, still frowning at his diagrams.  She wasn’t sure how much good it did for him to plan now, before he could see where and how Steve was trapped; but it kept him busy, and a busy Tony left everyone else alone.  Bruce didn’t mind Tony—liked him, even—but that couldn’t be said for James, not when he was the Winter Soldier.  Buck got along with everyone in his charismatic way. But James wasn’t Buck right now. And while she trusted him more than she had before, that trust wasn’t absolute.

But Tony was safe enough.  Bruce was there, and James had no reason to attack Tony.  She might be crazy, bringing him anywhere within a hundred miles of Steve…but she’d decided Clint was right.  Buck and the Winter Soldier were more like each other than they seemed.  She didn’t know what James intended when he saw Steve again.  She wasn’t sure he knew entirely.  But it was a five hour flight to San Francisco. She was going to try to find out.

First, though:  Melinda.

As she headed for the temporary medical bay set up for Melinda, Phil intercepted her.

“I took the liberty of contacting Thor,” he said.  “He should join us mid-flight.”

“You took the—“ she said.  “How long have you known how to do that?  We could have used him yesterday!”

He grimaced slightly.  “Not long.”

She crossed her arms and stared him down until he relented.

“After I spoke to you earlier this morning, I called Pepper Potts,” he said. “She happened to mention that she had a communication method.”

“Pepper,” she repeated flatly.  He nodded.

She turned to Tony.  “Tony, did you know Pepper knew how to contact Thor when he was off planet?”

He didn’t look up from his designs.  “Does she?” he said vaguely.  “No wonder she knew he’d be here for Thanksgiving.”

Talia closed her eyes and took a deep breath in, then exhaled slowly.

“I want that ‘communication method,’” she told Phil.  “We can talk about it after I see Melinda.”

He moved between her and the medical bay and spread his hands placatingly. “About that.”  She narrowed her eyes.  Why was he stalling?  “Captain Rogers is important to all the Avengers,” he said.

She nodded.

“You said it yourself,” he continued.  “None of you would stand to be left behind.”

She frowned at him for a full ten seconds before she understood.

When she did, she dropped a Widow’s Bite into her hand and pushed him hard with it, right in the chest.  He collapsed to the floor, gasping.  She ignored the flurried sounds from the room behind her as she knelt by his head.

“If he injures himself further because you took him out of the hospital the day after he was stabbed twice, shot three times and in surgery for seven hours…” she hissed.  “Not to mention out in the cold for more than six hours—do you know how much blood they had to give him?”  She tilted his chin so he could meet her eyes.  “They will never find your body.”

There was another scuffling sound behind her.  She dropped Phil’s head to look over her shoulder. Tony and Bruce were watching with interest as James restrained Skye with his left arm and held Hunter at gunpoint with his right.  Despite Skye’s struggles, he looked bored, like he was waiting in line for a cup of coffee.  She nodded to him, stood, and stepped over Phil’s prone body.  She still wanted to see Melinda.

And Clint, that suicidally reckless idiot husband of hers.

Anything else could wait.

Outside the medical bay, she took a slow, deep breath before walking through the door. Melinda smiled wryly at her from where she was propped up in one of the two hospital beds.  Talia didn’t look at the other bed yet.

“Phil told you,” she said.  “How badly did you hurt him?”

“He’ll recover,” Talia replied.  “I think he was feeling guilty.  He didn’t even try to fight.”  She sat down next to Melinda.  “How are you doing?”

Melinda shrugged.  “Not bad. I’ve been better, but I was lucky. The gunshot wound was uncomplicated. Taking it slow during recovery will drive me nuts, but…”  She shrugged again.  “It’s better than the alternative.”

Talia nodded, and allowed her eyes to drift past Melinda to the pale figure in the bed next to hers.  Clint was sleeping.  He had dark circles under his eyes; and he lay still and unmoving, tucked under several layers of light hospital blankets.  An IV tube trailed out from under the covers, over to the stand where a dark-skinned woman was tracking his vitals on a monitor.  Talia couldn’t tell what they were giving him through the IV.  Saline, she assumed. Maybe a morphine drip, too.

“They put him under to move him,” Melinda told her.  “So it would be easier on him—especially if takeoff and landing were rough.  I thought he was going to try to get out of bed and follow us out of the hospital. This is better, Natasha.”

Talia pursed her lips and nodded.  She knew how stubborn Clint could be.

“Is there a place I can sit by him and be out of your way?” she asked the woman.

“Sure,” she replied, and pointed Talia to a chair.

Talia sat and watched Clint’s slow, shallow breaths.

“You are such a reckless asshole,” she told him.  She looked at his caregiver.  “When will he wake?”

“Thirty minutes to an hour, I estimate,” she replied.  “Ms. Romanov, I presume?  I’m Doctor Bhaduri.”

Talia nodded even as her gaze returned to Clint’s lax face.  “And you signed off on this?”

“No,” Doctor Bhaduri replied.  “I owe Phil Coulson a favor, and I was available to accompany you to California. My understanding is that Mister Barton was preparing to check out of the hospital AMA.”

Talia sat by Clint’s side for a few minutes before she sighed and stood. “There’s a conversation I need to have,” she said.  “Please have me paged when he wakes up?”

“Of course,” the doctor said.

Talia smiled at Melinda and left.  She needed to learn what she could about James’ intentions now, so she could deal with him if she needed to, then give her attention to Clint.  Steve, Tony, James, JARVIS, and now Clint, with Phil’s assistance…  All the men in her life except Bruce were giving her trouble.  Maybe she could convince Melinda to join the Avengers. Skye, even, though she didn’t seem as sensible as Melinda.  Talia was tired of being the only woman on this damn team.

She was going to track down some of that tea Bruce liked, the one he had such a hard time finding in New York.  He deserved a ‘thank you for not being an asshole’ present.

But first, where was James?  It was time they had a little talk.

Maybe after that, she’d have a few minutes to yell at Tony before Clint woke.

Then thunder rolled; and a few moments later, there was a thudding sound on the roof of the Bus.  Talia sighed and switched directions for the cargo bay.  Thor was early,  it seemed. And he needed to be filled in about everything that had happened in the year or so since they had last seen him.  Deliberately she breathed in and out, in and out, slowly and steadily, as she walked to meet him. It wouldn’t be fair to take out her frustrations on him.  He hadn’t done anything to irritate her.

She wasn’t holding her breath that it would stay that way.

 

***

 

Steve was expecting the beams to press him down when he lost control of them. Instead they pulled a few inches up and away, then steadied and held fast with their weight off his shoulders. He didn’t understand why until he heard the crumbling of debris nearby.  They must have caught on something when the collapsed buildings’ weight shifted. 

He didn’t make the mistake of opening his eyes this time.

“Somebody there?” he called.

“Here.”

That was— 

He must be hallucinating again.

Tentatively he stretched out, tracing his hand along the steel beam towards the voice until he reached an impediment.  It was a hand:  cool, like Peggy's, but substantial in a way hers had not been.

A metal hand.  

Yeah, he was still hallucinating.

“Bucky,” he said.  He covered Bucky's hand with his own, holding tight to it.  There was a short pause.  

"Yes."  

"I'm glad you came," Steve said.  "I've missed you.  I've missed you so much.”  He caressed the metal hand, the way he would if Bucky were truly with him and loved Steve the way Steve loved him.  "I've missed you more than I miss Peggy.  Is that wrong?”  He shook his head ruefully.  “Maybe it’s worse because you are alive, but you’re not my friend anymore. It’s been so hard to accept that. To let go of you.” 

“Rogers, would you shut up and get out of there?” Bucky asked.  

"I can't, Buck," Steve said.  "I've gotta hold up these beams.  People are gonna die if I let go."

"You already let go,” Buck said.  "I'm holding the damn beam up.  The only thing you're holding on to is my hand."  

Oh.  That was true.  Carefully Steve opened his eyes to see weak light above him, and dimly, Bucky's shape through the thick dust.  

"Bucky." He started to crawl towards his friend; but his muscles, tense from the strain of so many still, painful hours, wouldn’t support his weight.  "Thanks for coming," he said.  "I thought it was just Peggy.  I'm glad you came too."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm dying,” Steve said.  "Aren't I?  Or is this a hallucination?”

Bucky sighed.   “Rogers, you’re a little loopy.  I need you to let go for a minute."  

Steve pulled back.  "Do you have to call me that?" he asked.  "I liked it better when it was Peggy."

"You're not hallucinating,” Bucky said.  “I’m here and I'm trying to rescue you.  Start cooperating."  

Steve looked at Bucky through eyes still blinking away dust particles.  Bucky was looking at him strangely—one moment it was like he was a cornered animal and he didn't know what he was going to do, the next it was that look he had a hundred thousand times during the war, following Steve into trouble. A hundred thousand iterations of _that little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb to run away from a fight_.

"I'm definitely hallucinating," Steve told him.  "If I'm getting out of this, it's because Tony's coming to my rescue, not you.  You wouldn't.  Not anymore.  You're not even on the same coast.”

“You are such a punk,” Bucky said.  He sounded exasperated.  “Will you get out of my fucking way so I can fix this thing and we can get out of here? This needs to go right where you are.  It’s the only place stable enough for it.”

“Jerk,” Steve replied.  His muscles were screaming at him, so he rolled to the side rather than try to crawl again.

Without moving his left hand from where it held up the fallen beam, Bucky took out a contraption, shook it open, and set it under the beam. It was awkward, but he managed. The gizmo was a U-shaped piece of a metal Steve didn’t recognize, set up on a tripod; and once Bucky had it in position, he pushed in a lever.  The cradle rose up until it reached the beam, then contracted and wrapped around to hold it in place.  Slowly Bucky let go with his left hand.  The machine held the beam steady.

Bucky exhaled.  “Let’s go.”

He turned and maneuvered his way out through a slim passage in the wreckage. Steve lay where he was and watched him go.  He had prayed for hope; and Peggy had come to him, and Bucky, too.  He closed his eyes and let the tears he had held back while Bucky was with him fall.  He’d follow in a minute.

It was a hallucination or he was dying; but either way, if Bucky came for him, he’d go. Of course he’d go.

Maybe when his blood was circulating better.Steve could barely move for the pins and needles, much less climb.

After a minute, Bucky was back.  His eyes flickered to the tear tracks on Steve’s grimy face, but he didn’t comment.

“Get moving, Rogers,” he said.

“Please don’t,” Steve said.

“Don’t what?” Bucky asked.  “Don’t save your fucking ass?”  He reached down with his left arm, grabbed Steve’s collar, and pulled him up to where he was.  “Can you hang on? I don’t want to climb and drag you at the same time.”

“Give me a sec,” Steve said.  He leaned his head against Bucky’s tense shoulder.  Why was he tense?  It didn’t make sense.  Peggy’s crying over him hadn’t made any more sense, he guessed.  Stupid of him to expect logic from a hallucination. They didn’t have to make sense if they didn’t want to.  “My entire body’s asleep.”  He smiled wistfully. “You go ahead.”

“That’s not the way it works, Rogers,” he said.

“I asked you not to do that,” Steve said.  “It hurts a lot, okay, Buck?  Don’t call me that.  I’m so tired. If I get out of this, I’m going to sleep for a week.”  He closed his eyes and snuggled into Bucky’s shoulder.  Bucky stiffened even more, but he didn’t say anything. “The commander said it would take a couple days at least to excavate this.  I’m not sure how long it’s been, but I don’t think two full days.” He sighed tiredly. “I hope everybody makes it out.”

They stayed like that for about half a minute before Bucky exhaled hard, slipped his left arm under Steve’s arms and around his chest, and started climbing, pulling Steve roughly along with him.

“Son of a—“ Steve swore.  “I can do it myself!  Let go, Bucky!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky said.  “You are out of your damn head right now.  One second you’re clinging like a cheap hooker, the next you’re squirming like a toddler having a tantrum.  What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

Steve gasped with laughter.  “I got ya on the ropes.”

There was a pause.  Too long a pause.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Bucky said.  He was still climbing.

“You don’t?” Steve sobered.  He pulled Buck to a stop, took a deep breath, and searched his friend’s face. “You’re really here.”

“Fucking finally,” he said.

It wasn’t Bucky.  It was Barnes.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.  He was not going to fucking cry in front of Barnes. Not again.  After a moment, he let go of Barnes’ neck and nodded curtly.

“I’m ready to climb,” he said.

Barnes looked at him, then started up.  Steve followed him out into the gray San Francisco drizzle, back into the world.

Sam was waiting for him at the surface, a worried look on his face. Steve clasped Sam’s forearm and let him take some of Steve’s weight so he could help him out of the tunnel.

He wasn’t the only one waiting.  Natasha stood a couple feet behind him.  Her face went from worried to mad the second she saw him.   He smiled sheepishly at her.

“Hi,” he said.  “I see you got my message.”  Her eyes narrowed and she punched his arm.  He was probably lucky that’s all she did.

And then her arms were around him.  He hung on tight, closing his eyes, leaning his head against her hair and feeling her warmth in his arms.  She’d kissed him a few times, but she’d never hugged him before.  It was too vulnerable a position for her to feel comfortable with it.

“You’re an asshole,” she said into his shoulder.  “Seven weeks.  Seven weeks with no idea where you are, and the only word we get is a postcard for Tony three days in.”  She leaned back enough to look him in the eye.

“I missed you,” he said.  “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

“I hate to interrupt this touching reunion,” Tony’s voice came over the comms. “But I’m ready to put this beam down.  A little help, please. And maybe some thanks to the guy that actually did the rescuing?”

Steve smiled.  He turned to look for Tony, and found him about a hundred feet away, hovering while holding one of the steel beams protruding from the wreckage steady.  Maybe sixty degrees to the left, Thor was doing the same with another beam.

“Thor,” he said.  “Thanks.”

Thor threw his head back and laughed as Tony snorted indignantly.

“C’mon, James,” he said.  “If that beam’s secure, let’s take care of these two so the good Commander’s people can get back to work.  There’s still people under there.”

“On my way,” Barnes said.

Steve started to follow him, but Natasha held him in place with a hand tightly gripping his arm.

“Oh no,” she said.  “You’re going to step over here so Bruce can check you over, and then you’re sitting the rest of this one out.”

He shook his head.  “I could drink about a gallon of water before I get back to work, so I’ll take a break and let Bruce look me over while I do that; but I won’t stand aside while there are still people in danger.  I’m not hurt.  Just stiff.”

“I’ll grab some water bottles and meet you,” Sam said.  Natasha nodded and started to pull Steve away from the wreckage, towards one of the rescue team’s shelters.  He stumbled along beside her.

“I’m glad you ignored what I said about waiting for a few days before trying to find me,” he told her.  “I don’t think I could have lasted that long.  One day was hard enough.”

“Sam called me too,” she said.  “But I didn’t get either message until this morning.  I would have been here yesterday no matter what you said. But we were in the midst of the assault on that Hydra base, so yesterday was a busy day.”

Steve stopped walking.  “What assault on what Hydra base?”

Natasha looked sideways at him.  “Tony didn’t tell you?”

“Tony knew about this?” he said.

Natasha’s lips curved slightly.

“Ah, schadenfreude,” she said.  “Clint called him, oh—April tenth.”

April tenth.  They’d been in Jackson at the time, and he hadn’t been in any shape to participate in an attack on Hydra.  But yesterday? While he’d been having a beer or two and practicing flirting at the meet and greet Tony had arranged, his team had been preparing to go into danger without him.

And Tony had known it.  Tony had known it; and instead of telling Steve, he’d thrown a party.  Steve wanted to hit him so badly his fists trembled.

He started walking again.  The sooner he let Bruce look him over, the sooner he could help again.  He was fine.  Already he was steadier than he had been a few minutes before.

Natasha linked elbows with him.

“I’ll tell you about it while you let Bruce check you, hmm?” she said.

“Yeah,” he said.  “I want to hear this.” He paused a moment. “Where is Clint?”

“On Coulson’s Bus,” she said.  “He refused to stay in New York, but he was badly hurt in the attack. There’s a doctor monitoring his condition; and I made her swear that if he tried to get out of his bed, she’d increase his pain meds enough to knock him out.”

Steve’s jaw set, and he turned back to the wreckage.  Thor and James were helping Tony steady the last beam that Steve had supported for so long.  The earthquake rescue wasn’t finished.  He huffed before he started to walk again towards the EMT’s shelter where Bruce waited.  Deliberately he relaxed his fists.

“Bruce can clear me, then I want to see Clint before I get back to work,” he said. “I’ll get to Tony later. There are more important things to do right now.”

“He really didn’t tell you?” Natasha asked.  She shook her head.  “Why do I have the feeling today’s a bad day to be Tony?”

Steve looked sideways at her.  “Because you know me.”

“Pencil some time in your calendar for me,” she said.  “I have some things to say to you.”

“Oh, that’s gonna be fun,” he said.

She smiled sweetly and fluttered her eyelashes at him.  “Fun for me, anyway.”


	41. Catching Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for being so understanding about the delay in posting this chapter! Between the flu and holidays and visiting family, it's been ridiculous around here. But Tamiflu is amazing and Christmas is over and the in-laws left today, so things should be settling down. I love the holidays (and my in-laws, too!) but they can be exhausting.
> 
> But a Happy New Year to all of you, and thanks for sticking around! I promise I'll be getting to comments as soon as I can. I'm very grateful for all of them (and always happy to get more)!

***

_April 20_ _ th_

It was hard for Steve to keep a lid on his anger while Natasha related the events of the Avengers’ attack on the LaGuardia-Rikers Island Hydra base from the other side of a flimsy privacy curtain.  Bruce checked him over silently, then waited patiently until she was done talking.

“Natasha, I’d like to speak to Steve in private,” he said.  “You can wait outside if you like; or you can go ahead to Clint, and I’ll walk Steve to the Bus when we’re done.” She looked from Bruce to Steve and back to Bruce.

“I’ll wait,” she said.

Steve narrowed his eyes at her.

“Don’t try to eavesdrop,” he warned.

“Who, me?” she asked.

“I mean it,” Steve said.  “I owe you an explanation, and you’ll get it; but I need to handle this my own way. Part of why I left was that I needed some space to think.  I’m not willing to give that up.”

She tilted her head and looked at him for a long moment.  “Maybe I’ll go back to Clint after all,” she said. “I’ll see you soon.”

Bruce watched her walk away until she was far enough she couldn’t hear before turning back to Steve.

“Considering you’ve been bearing the weight of a building or two for more than twenty-four hours, you’re in good shape,” he said.  “You have some bruises, and your muscles may feel the strain from that abuse for a while.  I’d recommend you sit out the rest of the rescue; but if you continue, as long as you take it easier, you’ll be okay.”  He lowered his glasses to pin Steve with his gaze.  “So take it easier.”

Steve saluted. “Yes, sir.”  He started to stand.

“Wait,” Bruce said.  He handed Steve a couple of protein bars.  “Eat those first.”  Steve sighed, but he tore open the wrapper on one and took a bite.  Bruce let him chew for a bit before he continued. “You’ve got some scars that suggest you broke your ankle and were mauled by an animal recently. A big animal.”

Steve tensed.  Deliberately he took a deep breath before swallowing the bite he’d been chewing. “I was,” he said. “I did.  That’s when Tony came riding to the rescue. I guess he didn’t say much to you about it at the time.”

Bruce nodded.  Carefully he polished his glasses with his shirttail.  Steve took another bite of the protein bar.  If his mouth was full, he wouldn’t have to talk—though that excuse wasn’t going to last long.  He wondered how long he could take to eat two protein bars.

“Do you want to tell me how it happened?” Bruce asked.  Steve gestured towards his mouth to indicate he was still chewing. Bruce pursed his lips and watched Steve chew for a few moments before he sighed.  “Okay, I’ll talk.  I think you let it happen, and I want to know why.  I want to know if Captain America is taking risks that could cause other Avengers to be hurt when we have a mission; and I want to know if there’s something wrong with my friend, Steve.”

Steve swallowed and blinked watery eyes a couple times.  He looked to the side, down—anywhere but at Bruce.

“I know what it’s like to be in a bad place,” Bruce reminded him quietly.

Steve nodded and blinked a little more.  Finally he chanced a glance at Bruce.  His wise, sorrowful face was sympathetic.

“I was,” Steve admitted.  “I wasn’t doing all that well.  I left to try to piece myself together, but I—“  A tear rolled down his cheek, and angrily Steve brushed it away. “It worked some. I’d figured out some things about myself and what I needed to do.  But I was low to start, and—“  His voice broke.  “I was tired. I was alone and tired and stupid.” He looked away again. Bruce was a great guy. He did know what it was like when things got so bad it seemed like suicide was the best option.

But it was so hard to admit he’d given up.  He felt more shame for that than for anything else.

Then Bruce’s arms were around him, and Steve clung to him hard.  For a long time, they stayed in that embrace, not speaking; and Steve cried as his friend held him.

“I’m so glad you survived,” Bruce whispered in his ear.  “We need you, you know.  Not Captain America.  We need Steve Rogers.”  Steve made a sound that was half laugh, half sob. He wasn’t sure which.

“You sure?” he asked.  “I’m pretty dumb sometimes, and I can be a lot of trouble.”

“I’m sure.” Steve could hear the smile in his voice.  He nodded into Bruce’s shoulder.

“Thanks,” he said.  “It means a lot.”

“I know how much it means,” Bruce told him.  He pulled back a little so he could look Steve in the eye. “The first time I met you, you showed me respect.  And of course that mattered to me.  But what made you someone I wanted to follow?  You respected the Hulk too.  You accepted him the way you accepted me.  I’d been alone a long time because people who knew me before—even loved me before—couldn’t do that.  You gave me a place to belong.”

“Nick Fury gave you a place on the Avengers,” Steve argued.  “And Tony gave you a home.”

“Nick Fury sent the Black Widow and an armed squadron to ‘recruit’ me for the Avengers Initiative,” Bruce said.  “Tony welcomed me without fear—though that’s not always a good thing with Tony—and he gave me a place to live.  But if you hadn’t accepted me, I’d have been in that containment chamber until S.H.I.E.L.D. had a chance to drop me back in India—or decided to keep me to experiment on. He would never have met me.”

“Tony would have found you,” Steve said.  “If Fury didn’t let you out, he would have found a way to do it himself. Or have JARVIS do it.”

“You’re not listening,” Bruce said.  “Tony cares about me—but he would have made me another rope in your power struggle.  When you accepted me—that was the difference between being treated as a pawn or as a person. Tony would always have given me a secure place to sleep, but the Avengers—that’s what makes it a home. And there’s no Avengers without you.”

“Fury would have found someone else,” Steve argued.

Bruce shook his head.  His smile was more sad than happy.

“It wouldn’t have been you,” he said.  “There are lots of people who are good leaders.  There are even a few on the team:  Thor, and Tony when he’s trying, and Clint surprised me with how well he led once Tony left.  But the rest of us—I wouldn’t follow Thor and neither would Natasha, and Tony’s my friend, but I wouldn’t listen to him when he was being an idiot—and he would be an idiot sometimes—and again, Natasha might do as he asked sometimes, but she wouldn’t follow him.”

“Clint could have done it, though,” Steve said.

“If he hadn’t been Loki’s slave at the time, maybe,” Bruce replied. “But he doesn’t like it much. He put himself in a forward position when we attacked Hydra and delegated the place he should have had to Maria Hill.  And Clint—Clint’s not someone we’d have listened to right away.  It took time to know him enough to trust him.  But I meant what I said earlier.  It’s not Captain America we need.  If someone else could lead us into battle without Tony disregarding their every word and Natasha reporting back to Fury or the Hulk smashing them instead of who we were fighting, we would still need you.” He poked Steve gently in the chest.  “Steven Grant Rogers, you are our even keel.”

Steve ducked his head and nodded.  He didn’t know what to say to that.  He couldn’t argue with anything Bruce said, but he’d never seen it that way. He led because he was good at it—and because he was more like Tony than he admitted.  If he thought the guy in charge was wrong, Steve would do what was right no matter what his orders were.  But—

“If you’re only wanted for your good side,” he said hesitantly. “If you’re only accepted because of what you can do for someone.  You’re not really wanted.”

Bruce nodded.  “That’s true,” he said.  “It’s because you know that, and you accept us the way we are, and you challenge us to be better than we knew we could.  That’s why we love you.  And we’re not letting go.”

Steve blinked back tears.  “That sounds like a marriage proposal,” he joked hoarsely.

Bruce smiled at him again—a smile without a hint of his almost ever-present melancholy. “For better or for worse,” he said.

This time it was Steve who hugged him.

 

***

 

His eyes were hot and sore, but Steve felt a lot better when he left Bruce—cried out, and relieved to have released some of his emotional pressure. He’d always planned to return to New York and the Avengers, but he hadn’t known this was coming. He could have used a chance to prepare for the idea.  Not just for seeing Barnes, either.  He wasn’t looking forward to that conversation with Natasha.

He had never planned to let any of them know about his suicide attempt. They didn’t need to know how broken he’d been.  They didn’t need to know he was that weak.

But Tony knew, Sam knew, and now Bruce knew.  He’d like to keep it limited to those three.  Maybe Natasha would figure it out.  She wasn’t bad at reading him when she set her mind to it.  Clint? Thor?  He didn’t know.

He’d burn out his tongue before he told Barnes.  Barnes wasn’t getting any more out of him than he’d already had. He wished he could take back what he’d said under the rubble, when he thought he was seeing things.

It was too late.  Nothing to do but move ahead.  And it wasn’t exactly a secret, that he missed Bucky.  That the way Barnes had treated him hurt him.  He wished he hadn’t poured it all out to the man his friend had become, but…

That he didn’t plan to continue to let Barnes bleed him to death—well, that wasn’t going to be a secret for long.  He wasn’t going to make an announcement, but people would notice his behavior had changed.

That he loved Bucky—that he had loved him as long as he’d known him, that he wanted him the way a man wants a lover, that try though he might, he loved him still… He felt that way about Barnes, too.  It wasn’t something he could turn off.  But he had to protect himself.  It was because he loved him that he had to stay away.

He was shaky with relief that he hadn’t said any of that.  He didn’t know what he would have done if he had.

The rescue site was more crowded and chaotic than it had been before—not with rescue workers but with civilian onlookers.  Steve didn’t know if that was because it was the second day after the earthquake or if something had happened while he was under the buildings. The Bus was hard to miss, though, parked as it was on the access ramp that rose towards the closed Bay Bridge; so Steve made his way through the crowd towards the base of the ramp. From that higher vantage point he could see Sam working on maintaining the perimeter.  He didn’t seem to have the manpower he needed for the large crowd, which was pressing up against the temporary barriers around the excavation zone.  Steve frowned.  After he saw Clint, he’d head over to talk to Commander Martinez.  This crowd was going to be a problem if they didn’t deal with it.

There was a man guarding the entrance to the Bus Steve didn’t know; but he seemed to recognize Steve, because he let him pass with a nod.  There were two women just inside.  When they saw him, one smiled shyly at him before moving away and the other greeted him with an easy smile.

“Captain Rogers,” she said, holding out a hand for him to shake. “I’m Skye.  If you’ll follow me, Agent Romanov asked me to show you to her and Agent Barton.”

Steve nodded.  “Glad to meet you, Skye.”

“It’s an honor, sir,” she replied.  Her smile turned mischievous.  “AC talks about you _all_ the _time_.  I am going to get _hours_ of mileage out of this.”

Skye kept up a light chatter as she led Steve deeper into the Bus.  Steve paid just enough attention so that he wasn’t rude, but her talk didn’t really register.  His mind was on Clint’s condition, and the rescue operation, and churning in the back, Barnes.  When they reached the medical bay, Steve pushed it all down long enough to summon up a War Bonds smile for Skye.

“Thanks for your help,” he said.

She looked at him for a long moment without replying, and her smile deepened.

“I am getting shot down by nonagenarians all over the place,” she said.

His brow furrowed.  What did that mean?

She laughed—she had a pretty laugh, but Steve wasn’t sure what was funny.

“You didn’t even realize I was flirting with you, did you?” she asked.

His face flushed and he shook his head.

“I apologize,” he said.  “My mind was elsewhere—the earthquake rescue, and Clint…”  He paused.  “I’m flattered.  I hope we’ll have a chance to meet again under better circumstances.”

“Yeah, that’s what he said,” she replied with a grin.  She winked at him before turning back the way they’d come.  “See you, Captain.”

He nodded in farewell and watched her walk away with a frown before her meaning registered.

Well, if that wasn’t proof that his friend was gone…He didn’t think Bucky had ever turned down a pretty girl, much less a dame as beautiful as that. He shook his head at his own hopelessness.  He hadn’t even noticed she was flirting.  And he was distracted, but…

No wonder he never seemed to get anywhere with women.  He was going to have to start to pay better attention. Maybe find someone to translate for him.  He sighed, then his sigh faded into a quiet smile.  Boy, would Peggy have laughed at him.

Anything like that wasn’t happening now, anyway.  He had other things to deal with.  He opened the door and walked into the infirmary.

His anger at Tony, tamped down since his conversation with Bruce, flared up again when he saw Clint.  Clint could be still for a long time.  It was part of who he was, and that unmoving alertness was a big factor in his success as an archer.  But this was different. His face was bruised and cut badly enough to need stitches in several places.  One of his shoulders was pretty well wrapped up in a way that meant it was in bad shape.  And under the bruising he was pale and unfocused, so at first Steve thought he was asleep.  Natasha was sitting by his side, holding his hand.  There was another woman looking at a monitor—of Clint’s vitals, he assumed—on the far side of the room.  She looked up when he came in, nodded at him, then went back to her monitor.  The woman in the bed nearest the door was sleeping.  He didn’t recognize her.  Another of Phil’s team?  She was pale the way someone who’d lost a lot of blood was and hooked up to a saline drip, so he guessed she’d been injured in the attack as well.

He looked at Clint again.  Clint smiled blearily.

“You’re looking good for a guy who just climbed out from under a pile of rocks,” Clint said.  “Better than me, I bet. Think I’m cleaner, though.”

“That’s not hard,” Steve said.  He approached Clint’s bed.  There wasn’t another chair, so he stood.

“Your eyes are red,” Natasha said.

“It was dusty down there.”

“They weren’t that red before,” she said.

“Sure they were,” he said.  Sometimes it was best to brazen it out with Natasha.

“Uh huh,” she said.

Well, sometimes it worked.  He turned back to Clint with a small smile.  “Not that I’m not glad to see you, because I am.  But I’d rather you took care of yourself.”  His smile faded.  “How bad are you hurt?”

Clint shrugged with his uninjured shoulder.  “My shoulder was hit twice.  That’s the worst of it.”

“He nearly bled out,” Natasha told him.  “He was out on his own for almost the entire operation.  James brought him in.”

Steve shook his head and set it aside.  He wasn’t talking about Barnes right now.  _Especially_ with Natasha.  “Sounds like we’re lucky we didn’t lose you.”

“Don’t plan on being lost anytime soon,” Clint said.  His voice had started to slur, and he closed his eyes. “Can’t stay awake though.”

“He shouldn’t have come,” Natasha chided gently.

Clint didn’t open his eyes.  “Couldn’t stand being left out.  After.”

“After?” Steve asked.

“After Loki,” he said.  “The Avengers and Talia, y’trust me.  Didn’t have much of that at S.H.I.E.L.D. after.”  His head lolled to the side like he was falling asleep, but he pulled up after a second.  “Did you up my pain meds?”

“You were hurting,” Natasha said.

“Wanted to see Cap,” he replied.  His voice had taken on a petulant tone Steve had never heard from Clint before. “Tell him.”

“It’s okay,” Steve said.  “Go ahead and rest.  You can tell me later.”

“No more runnin’ off,” Clint said.  His head started to drift again and didn’t come back up.  “Y’an me both.”

“No more running,” Steve agreed.  He waited a minute, but Clint didn’t say anything more.  Steve looked at Natasha.  She was still watching Clint, her face soft.

“I have to talk to Commander Martinez,” he told her.  He sighed.  “And Tony.”

“I’m going to stay here for a while,” she said.

Oh. Was that new?  If she felt that way about Clint, why would she…

It wasn’t any of his business.

“Go ahead and ask,” Natasha said.

“It’s not my business,” he said.

The corner of her mouth quirked up.

“I never let that stop me.”

“I noticed,” Steve said.

“I’m not sorry about it,” she said.  Her shoulders were stiff now; her smile gone.

“I wouldn’t expect you to be,” he replied.

“I think we gave you too _much_ space,” she said.  “Nobody noticed anything was wrong. And you—what _has_ been going on with you?”

Steve sighed and inclined his head towards the doctor less than five feet away. “Later, okay?”

She nodded abruptly.  Steve turned to go.

“Was it me?” she asked, just as he reached the door.  “We all know your note for Tony was so much smoke. James thought maybe it had something to do with you seeing us like you did.”

Steve sighed and turned back to face her.

“I can’t deny it was a shock,” he said.  “But that’s not why I left.  It had nothing to do with you.”

She twisted in her chair to look closely at him.

“But James,” she said.  “It _was_ something to do with him.”

Steve pursed his lips and looked at the ground for a moment.  Natasha saw too much.  But the truth of why he left New York—that wasn’t something he was going to be able to keep a secret.

“Yeah,” he told her.  “It had to do with Barnes.”

One of her eyebrows went up.  “Barnes?” she asked.

“Barnes,” he said firmly.

“Oh.” She was fighting to hide her surprise, but she was having a hard time of it.

“Oh,” he agreed.  He crossed the room to squeeze her shoulder.  “I’ll see you later.”

“You will,” she said.  He nodded one last time and left the room.  He had the feeling this conversation wasn’t over, but he had other priorities right now.

He didn’t know what he was going to say to Tony.  But there was still a rescue operation going on. He had Commander Martinez to talk to first.

He exited the Bus to find Thor and Tony landing just outside it. He frowned.  Why weren’t they working?

Tony lifted his faceplate.  “Back in you go, Cap,” he said.  “We’re done here.”

Steve looked around.  They weren’t done. Martinez’ people were still moving purposefully around the rescue site.

“The Commander has asked us to leave, Captain,” Thor explained.

“To _leave_?” Steve repeated.

“Our presence has proved to be a distraction,” Thor said.  “We must leave so that the rescue can continue without impediment.”

_Son of a—_

Without a word he turned and went back in to the Bus.  Looked like that discussion with Tony wasn’t going to have to wait too long after all.


	42. Time to Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am slowly catching up on responding to comments--I appreciate it so much when you take the time to leave a thoughtful response to a chapter, and I want to be able to show that same thought in return. Unfortunately, sometimes that means it takes me longer than I would like to get back to you.
> 
> My husband has suggested on multiple occasions that I answer each comment with "indeed!"--usually when I'm in bed at night working away at my responses. That's not going to happen any time soon--I enjoy hearing what you think too much for that!
> 
> But for some of you--issues you raised in a comment will be affected by events that occur in chapter 42. I'm going to keep that in mind when I respond.
> 
> And I'm going to be hoping for lots of flailing responses to this chapter--I think it deserves them...
> 
> *is gleeful*
> 
> p.s. The aforementioned husband and I took a short holiday this past weekend to celebrate our anniversary in advance (the day after this posts). We went to the McNay Museum in San Antonio; and while I was there, I thought of y'all, and Steve and the art he would like. So some posts related to that trip will be going up on tumblr during the coming days.

***

_April 20_ _ th_

Skye looked surprised to see Steve walk back aboard the Bus less than a minute after he’d disembarked.  She glanced at Tony and Thor as well, and her gaze stuck on Thor.

“Captain Rogers,” she said distractedly.  “What’s up?”

He waited, but she didn’t look at him.  Well, it was a good view.  He cleared his throat.  When that didn’t work, he called her name.

“Skye,” he said.  “ _Skye_.”

She started and looked at him at last.  He raised an eyebrow, and she shrugged and grinned at him.

“Would you ask Director Coulson to drop us at our hotel as soon as we’re all on board?” he asked.  “And if there’s a place we could meet in private…  The Avengers have some decisions to make.  After you speak to the director, please tell Agent Romanov as well. If she can join us, I’d appreciate it.”

Skye nodded, and turned to leave; but as she did her gaze returned to linger on Thor, and her footsteps stalled.  Steve sighed.  Maybe Skye would get to passing on his messages if she wasn’t distracted.

“Thor, will you make sure the others heard?  The sooner we get out of here, the sooner Commander Martinez can get back to her job.”

“Of course, Captain,” Thor said.  He placed a strong hand on Steve’s shoulder and squeezed gently, then was gone. Dreamily Skye watched him go.

“Why is it always Thor who gets that reaction?” Tony asked.

“You have seen him shirtless, right?” Steve said.

_That_ caught Skye’s attention. “Captain Rogers, I would make it worth your while to arrange that.  Seriously.  I would pay so much to see that.  Every woman on board would chip in.  Maybe some of the guys.  I’ll get a pool going right now.”

“If you could go ask Coulson about that ride, please,” Steve said.

“I’m just saying,” Skye muttered.  “I’ll take you to the conference room and I’ll pass your request on to A.C. But if for some reason Thor takes off his shirt, I’d appreciate it if you’d invite me.”

Steve and Tony followed her to the room.  Steve eyed the walls and door—floor to ceiling glass.

“Is this room soundproof?” he asked.  “And is it possible to tint the glass?”

It was Skye’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

“It’s soundproof,” she said.  “But there’s no way to darken the glass.  I could hang up a couple sheets if you want.”

Steve shook his head.  “Thank you, Skye.”

She saluted cheekily before walking away.  Steve took a deep breath and walked in to the conference room. Tony followed him.

“I know what you’re going to say,” Tony said.

Steve waited for the door to shut all the way before he turned his glare on Tony.

“I should have told you about the plan to attack Hydra,” Tony said.

“You _do_ know what I’m going to say,” Steve said.  He worked to keep his voice level.  “Our teammates needed us, and you thought it was more important to find me a date?  Natasha was in a lot of trouble.  Clint was nearly killed. We should have been there. That’s what a team is.”

“You weren’t ready,” Tony replied, crossing his arms defensively.

“That’s not your call to make,” Steve said.  “That’s my decision.  Maybe I wasn’t in any shape to help when you first found out about it, but I’ve healed since then—and whether or not I could fight, I deserved to know the rest of the Avengers were in danger.”

“Right,” Tony said.  “Because you’re known for sitting out fights you’re not up to.”

Steve ignored that.  “Even if I had to sit it out, Iron Man could have helped.  Nothing was keeping you out of this fight.”

“ _You_ were keeping me out of the fight!” Tony’s voice rose.

“I would have been fine!” Steve’s volume rose to match.  They weren’t quite yelling—not yet; but they were close.

“Look what you did when I left you alone with Jeff for a few hours! Think for a second about why we were holed up in Jackson in the first place!” Tony shouted. “Hell, how long did it take after I left San Francisco until you were trying to benchpress a building? You’re not making the greatest decisions lately, Cap!”

“It’s not about me; it’s about our team!” Steve shouted.  “I thought maybe you got that!”

“I get that it’s been so long since anybody put you first that you don’t know what to do when it happens!” Tony yelled.  “I get that you are a masochistic son of a bitch who’s willing to bleed out so somebody else doesn’t get a hangnail!”

“Our team’s lives were on the line!” Steve replied, slamming his hands on the table. “I got no right to do any less! How do you not get that?”

Tony clanked forward so he could poke Steve in the chest, hard enough to force Steve to stumble back a step.  Steve planted his feet and glared at Tony.  _Just try me, you bucket of bolts_.

“Would you expect Clint to pull off his IV and get out there to help with the search and rescue operation?” Tony asked.  “You were in no shape to be there.  In case you’ve forgotten, Cap, your life _was_ on the line.” He tried to poke Steve again, but Steve caught his finger before he could touch his chest.  They struggled for a bit before Tony raised his hands to show he was backing off.  “Your whole life, you have decided you come last. Your needs, your safety, come last.  _You_ don’t matter—until grizzly bear wrestling looked like a good idea to you. You remember what I said our first day here?  Anything you wanted to do, Sam or I had to approve first or one of us went with you. And the reason we have to have that rule, Ice for Brains, is because you haven’t been making smart decisions lately.”

“This isn’t the same thing,” Steve said.  “You know this isn’t the same thing.  They needed us—both of us.  Clint nearly bled out.  Natasha nearly suffocated.  Because we weren’t there.”

“Uh-huh,” Tony said.  “Clint was hurt and Widow had some scary minutes—though she didn’t ‘nearly suffocate’—but Hydra didn’t attack _them_.  _They_ decided it would be a good time to take on Hydra, and I trusted Clint wouldn’t make that call if he didn’t think they could do it without us. It was more complicated than they expected, maybe; but that’s not a bad thing.  It was a learning experience.”

“Our friends’ lives are not something we gamble on a ‘learning experience’!” Steve shouted.  He and Tony stared angrily at each other until a quiet cough came from the door. They both turned. Natasha stood in the doorway, with Sam and the rest of the Avengers—everyone but Clint—behind her. Steve and Tony had been so involved in their argument they hadn’t heard the others arrive.

When had they gotten there?

They stood in tense silence, no one moving, until Steve’s phone began to ring. Tony sighed and turned away as Steve pulled it out, and the rest of the Avengers slipped quietly into the room. Steve hit “ignore” without looking at the number and took a deep breath.  He needed to calm down before he broke something, and it wasn’t just him and Tony anymore.  They were going to have to address this as a group.

“Tony and I disagree about how the Hydra attack should have been handled,” he told the others.  His phone started to ring again.  Why was it doing that? It had to be a misdial.  Tony, Sam, and Natasha were the only people who knew his phone number.   Once again he took out his phone and hit “ignore” before slipping it into his back pocket and turning to the gathered Avengers.  “But I owe all of you an apology.  It wouldn’t have come to this if I hadn’t left you without any way to contact me. You have my word: that’s not going to happen again. Natasha tells me that we have a way to contact Thor now, too; so that’s good.  We don’t make much of a team if we can’t assemble when we need to.”

“Are you coming back to New York?” Natasha asked.

“I never intended this to be permanent,” Steve said.

“Is that what you want to do?  Now?” Sam asked with a frown.

Steve sighed.  “I didn’t say that.”

“You’re moving into the Tower if you do,” Tony said.  “Barnes has been living with Clint and Natasha. He can do that and you can have your floor back.”

Before Tony finished speaking, Steve’s phone began to ring again. Boy, that was annoying.

Steve ignored it.

“I’m not giving up my apartment; and there are reasons the Tower’s not a great idea for me, _as you know_ ,” he bit out.

Tony shook his head—in frustration, not denial.  “Your ass is ringing,” he said.  “Would you answer your phone already?”

“It’s a wrong number,” Steve told him. Sure enough, the rings cut off. “See?”

“Cap, you can come back to New York _if_ you live in the Tower, or you can go to DC and live with Sam if the poor bastard will take you, but there’s no door number three,” Tony said.  “Continuing on your own isn’t an option. You know it’s not.”

“Why is that?” Barnes asked.

Steve wasn’t answering that question. 

“Why do you need a chaperone?” Natasha asked.

He wasn’t answering that question, either.  He opened his mouth to argue with Tony, and his phone started to ring.

“Whoever it is, they seem to think they know you,” Tony said.

“It’s a wrong number,” Steve said. “There are only three people who have this number, and they’re all in this room.”  And the ringing did stop, so he gave Tony an _I told you so_ glare.

But then it started again.

“Well, answer it; and tell them you’re not Great-Aunt Mabel, will you?” Tony asked.  “It’s driving me nuts.”  Steve waved him off.  He was already pulling his phone out.

“Hello?” he said.  “I think—“

“See, this is why any sane guy thinks ‘dating a superhero is a bad idea,’” Hansen said.   “‘Cause he thinks:  aliens attacking New York and exploding secret government shit are not only going to fuck up Saturday nights on a regular basis, but also every damn time it happens he’s going to have a heart attack watching the news and waiting to hear if his particular superhero is okay.  So he does the smart thing—the right thing—and says goodbye, even though a bad part of him wants to first defile said superhero in so many, many ways; and then he turns on the news and there’s been another earthquake in San Francisco; why do people live there when they know it’s just a matter of time until the whole damn city falls into the ocean; Christ, that looks bad; how many people got hurt this time; yada yada yada…  Hey, I know that grime-covered man who just crawled out of the rubble and is talking to Iron Man.”

“ _Hansen?_ ” Steve asked.

“And he realizes:  it doesn’t matter that he’s not dating him.  It doesn’t matter that his Saturday night plans don’t get cancelled.  Because one morning there’s going to be a report about an earthquake in San Francisco, and he’s going to think, ‘damn, how is that poor town still standing?’ and he’ll keep half an eye on the news, ‘cause he knows a few guys who moved out there—and he’s going to see this guy he was half in love with who turned out to be a superhero crawling out from under a collapsed building with a baby, a grandmother, a disabled war vet and five puppies in tow.”

“Hansen—“ Steve tried.

“And he realizes:  this is what it’s going to be like.  Every damn time something terrible happens anywhere in the world, he’s going to be worried.  He’s going to be glued to the TV developing an ulcer and getting depressed from all the bad news while he watches, but he can’t turn away because Captain America isn’t an East Coast kind of guy. Captain America is going to be right in the midst of whatever trouble there is—East Coast, West Coast, Africa, Antarctica, wherever.  And if he weren’t a damn fool, he could be dating that gorgeous, heroic man—and if some of his dates got cancelled, at least he’d know where the hell Steve Rogers was most of the time.  ‘Cause whether he’s dating him or not, it’s too late to protect his heart.  He cares too much.”

_Half in love with…_   Steve inhaled hard, but Hansen started up again before he could say a word.

“So that’s it,” Hansen said.  “I’m a damn fool, and I regret it, and I’m sorry. And emailing you instead of returning your calls was an asshole move.  I knew it was going to hurt you and I hated it.  I feel like shit thinking about it. But I knew I’d cave if I called you; and I thought if you really wanted to talk, you’d call me instead of letting it go; so after a couple days I figured you’d written me off. I was trying to move on and tell myself I couldn’t have done anything else when I saw you on the news. I have no expectations. I wish you’d stay safe and not fight aliens and government conspiracies or rescue people from collapsed buildings. I know you’re not that guy. You’re going to do all that shit and probably shit I haven’t begun to think about.  But I care about you, okay?  So please be safe.  As safe as you can be doing the most dangerous shit on the planet.”

Steve waited a moment, but Hansen seemed to be done at last.

“I can’t believe you called,” he said. He looked around the room. No one made any effort to pretend they weren’t listening.  And the two who knew who Hansen was, Sam and Tony…  Sam caught his eye and tilted his head towards the door, but where could Steve go?  If he left the room, Phil’s team would be able to hear him—he suspected Skye was somewhere close by, hoping Thor might flex a bicep where she could see it. Tony, on the other hand, had his arms crossed and a considering look on his face.  He looked like he might snatch the phone out of Steve’s hand and tell Hansen they were going to have a little man-to-man talk before Hansen walked out with his daughter.  Steve took a precautionary step or two away.

“I can’t believe it either,” Hansen said. “I’ve been trying not to for the past hour, but—  Christ, Brooklyn. I’m crazy about you. I’m scared shitless about the kind of thing you do; but I can’t forget you, and I’m done trying, and I’m too old to be shy about it.”

Steve felt like that twelve year old girl Hansen had accused him of being once, all butterflies and elated nerves. He looked around the room. _Oh, hell._ The look on Natasha’s face… She was more than curious; she was intrigued.  A wall of glass was better than nothing.  He crossed the room and went out into the hall, standing with his back to the Avengers.

“Yeah,” he said.  “Yeah, I get what that’s like.”  He swallowed hard.  “I’m glad you did.”  He tried a couple doors down the hall; but they were locked, and Phil’s team seemed to have disappeared.  This was as good as it got. “I can’t talk right now.  There’s no privacy, and I’ve got to get back to work. But I want to talk to you when I can, okay?  Let me call you back.”

“Yeah,” Hansen said.  “You do that.  Just for God’s sake be careful until then.”

Steve risked a glance over his shoulder at the room full of Avengers.  Tony was saying something, but every one of them was ignoring him to watch Steve through the glass.  He turned away again. He was insane. This wasn’t the time.

He had to know.

“How many ways?” he asked.

“What?” Hansen asked.

“You said—earlier,” Steve said.  He swallowed.  When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse.  “You said ‘many, many ways.’”

Hansen chuckled.  Just like that, his voice had gone from concerned to assured—smug, even. “Oh, Brooklyn,” he said. Hell.  Steve was a mess just hearing him say ‘Brooklyn’ like that.  “You have _no_ idea.  _Countless_ ways.”

“Don’t gloat about it,” Steve said.

“Too late,” Hansen laughed.

“I’ve got to go,” he said.

“Okay,” Hansen said.  “Go.  Call me when you can.”

Steve hung up and hid his face in his hands. He was blushing; he knew he was. He took a couple of slow deep breaths while he waited for it to fade, turned around, and walked back into the conference room.

“Let’s talk about door number three,” he said.


	43. Fallout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still working on responding to comments--the last chapter brought in a slew of them! Thanks to all of you who commented--I haven't forgotten you! HOW COULD I I LOVE Y'ALL SO MUCH YOU ARE THE BEST
> 
> *blows kisses*

***

Previously on _Like a Cruel Mistress Woos_ :

_“Cap, you can come back to New York if you live in the Tower, or you can go to DC and live with Sam if the poor bastard will take you, but there’s no door number three,” Tony said._

" _See, this is why any sane guy thinks ‘dating a superhero is a bad idea,’” Hansen said._

_“Let’s talk about door number three,” Steve said._

***

_April 20 th_

Tony shook his head.  “No way.  No way am I going to sign off on this.”

Steve crossed his arms and looked at Tony. He didn’t have to say anything. Tony was a smart guy.

Tony stared at him with narrowed eyes. “Everybody but Sam and Cap get out,” he said.

“Forget it,” Natasha said.  “Things just got interesting.”

“Go ahead,” Steve said.  “This isn’t a spectator sport.  I’ll tell you what you need to know later, after Tony and Sam and I hash some things out.”

Natasha didn’t move for a minute, just met his steady gaze.  Finally Bruce stood and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“We should go visit Clint,” he said. “I don’t think Thor has had a chance to see him yet.”

Natasha tilted her head and studied Steve’s face a little more before standing.

“Sure,” she said.  “Thor will make Melinda’s year.  And you’ll tell me everything later, right, Steve?”

“I’ll tell you what you need to know,” he corrected.

She paused for a moment to look back at him, then continued out of the room, Bruce and Thor right behind her.  Barnes remained seated.

Sam whistled.  “She’s got your scent, Cap.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Steve said.  “One thing at a time.”

Barnes still hadn’t moved.

“You’re not staying, either,” Tony told him.

Barnes ignored Tony to cock his head at Steve. “You gonna kick me out too?” he asked.

“You don’t need to be here for this,” Steve answered.

“Maybe I want to be,” Barnes said.

Tony snorted.  “News flash,” he said.  “It’s not all about you.”

“Seriously?” Barnes asked.  “ _You’re_ telling me that?”

Sam shook his head and shot Steve a worried glance. Steve didn’t answer, just tried to read the expression in Barnes’ eyes.  He wasn’t very good at it any more.

“This is private,” he finally said.

Barnes looked at him for a long time, blank-faced.

“Right,” he said at last.  He pushed his chair back from the table and stalked out of the room.

Steve took a deep breath and set Barnes’ reaction aside.  That was a mystery he was never going to solve, and he didn’t need to.  Whatever his motivation, it wasn’t friendship. Barnes wasn’t his friend.

“Can we talk about what happens next?” he asked. “I think you both know I’m going back to Minneapolis for a while.  I could have something good with Hansen.  I want a chance to find out.”

“Have you considered a long-distance relationship?” Tony asked.  “It’s not that hard. I’ll loan you a plane.”

“No,” Steve replied.  “I want to be able to drop by his office on his lunch break or grab a cup of coffee at the last minute.  I’ve never had that.  With Peggy, there was the war; and Bucky…  Well, you know.  Because of who I am, there’s always going to be an aspect of crazy to any relationship.  I want to at least live in the same town.”

“You’ve never had anything,” Tony said. “How are you going to know the difference?” 

Steve glared at him.  That was a low blow.

“Look, we get that,” Sam said.  “But I’m worried about how you’re going to do without any support, too.  You don’t know anyone in Minneapolis but this guy, and you haven’t known him too long.”

“I’m not doing this without support, am I?” Steve asked.  “You guys have got my back.  If I need help, I’m going to ask for it.”  He took a deep breath. “When I went to confession, the priest made a couple of things part of my penance.  One was that for six months I go to this group that meets every week; and I don’t know if there’s one in Minneapolis, but there’s one in New York.  The other was that I see a counselor.   But I could fly to New York Sunday morning, go to Dignity that evening, go to the psychiatrist Monday, then fly back to Minneapolis Monday night.  I’ll check in with you while I’m in the city, okay Tony?  You can see that I’m okay.  And Sam, I’ll call you every week.”

“JARVIS?” Tony asked.

“How may I assist you, sir?” JARVIS replied, his voice slightly tinny over the speaker in Tony’s comm.

Huh.  JARVIS usually read Tony’s cues better than that.

“What is Dignity?” Tony asked.

“Dignity:  the state or quality of being worthy of honor or respect,” JARVIS said.  “An incident in the conflict between Israel and Palestine during the 2008-2009 Gaza War.  The title of a 2007 Hilary Duff album.  The title of a Bob Dylan song recorded in 1989. The title of a Deacon Blue song first released in 1987.  DignityUSA: founded in 1970, an organization focused on LGBT rights and the Roman Catholic church.  It functions as a support and social group for LGBT-identifying Roman Catholics and their supporters.”

“I think we have a winner!” Tony interrupted. “Thanks, JARVIS. Nice work.”

“It was my pleasure, sir,” JARVIS replied. He sounded proud.

Yeah, something was definitely off with JARVIS. Steve couldn’t quite name it, but that—that wasn’t right.

“Dignity sounds like a good place for you to make some connections,” Sam said.  “I definitely approve.”

“Yeah, that gets my vote too,” Tony said. “You should do that.”

Steve let his exasperation show.  “It’s part of my penance,” he said. “I was doing it whether you approved or not.  Though thanks for the support.  Hansen and Minneapolis—it’s really the same thing.  I want to do this in a way you guys can get behind; but either way, I’m doing it.  Will I have your help or not?”

“You are _such_ an asshole,” Tony griped. “Someday I’m going to write an autobiography, and I’m going to call it _If You Think I’m a Shit, You’ve Never Met Steve Rogers_. I’m going to be keeping an eye on you—and Hansen, too.  I want to know more about this guy.”

“That’s where I am on this, too,” Sam said. “I want to look him in the eye. I want to see how he treats you.”

“I’ve got some ideas about that,” Steve said, smiling. _This was going to happen. It was really going to happen._ “But no shovel talk, okay?”

“You keep thinking that if it makes you feel better, Cap,” Tony said.

“What he said,” Sam agreed.  “Let’s hear these ideas of yours.”

***

 

Sam agreed first.  Well.  Agreed was stretching it, maybe; but he and Steve had spent almost twenty-four hours a day together for nearly six months while they searched for the Winter Soldier. Sam knew him.  Steve was going to Minneapolis whatever anybody said about it.

Tony was a stubborn guy; he was harder. But in the end, Sam helped Steve talk him around.

“Look, I’m not saying it’s ideal,” he had said. “But it’s Steve’s life. It’s not like you can force him back to New York and lock him up in the top floor of the Tower.”

“You had to set up the princess metaphor,” Steve had griped.

“Hey, I’m not thrilled about this situation,” Sam had said.  “I gotta get some joy out of it somewhere.”

“Maybe I couldn’t force him before, but Thor’s here now,” Tony had disagreed.  “He can’t take both of us at once.”

Steve had turned a full-force glare on Tony; but before he said a word, Sam had intervened.

“You’ll have to tell the rest of the Avengers about the suicide attempt to gain Thor’s cooperation,” he had said. Tony had tilted his head like he was thinking about it.  Sam shook his head.  “Uh-uh. That’s a good way to ruin a friendship. Steve wouldn’t forgive you.”

“I wouldn’t,” he had agreed.  “And unless you have a containment cell I don’t know about and are planning to lock me up—you might get me back to New York, but you won’t keep me there.”

“There’s that, too,” Sam had said. “I know it’s hard, and I know all you want is to keep him safe.  I know you’re used to being an irresistible force.  Well, Irresistible Force, let me introduce you to Immovable Object.  General opinion is: whatever happens when the two of you clash, it ain’t pretty.  Stand down a second and let’s come up with a plan that will work.”

Tony still wasn’t happy about it, but he’d wrung every concession out of Steve that he could before finally giving in. It wasn’t enough for him that Steve call Sam mid-week to check in.  Steve _was_ going to call Sam to check in on Tuesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays; but on Wednesdays one of Stark Industries’ jets was going to fly Sam from DC to Minneapolis and back, and it would remain on call for him in case of emergencies.  When Steve flew to New York on Sundays, he would come to the Tower for at least two hours in the afternoon before his Dignity meeting; and again on Monday before he returned to Minneapolis.  Tony’d had JARVIS add the numbers of about twenty crisis prevention hotlines to Steve’s phone; and made Steve swear he’d call Sam, Tony, and every single hotline before he did anything “stupid.”  And he hadn’t made it any secret that he transferred Hansen’s number to his own phone.

  So the upshot was: there were a lot of conditions to it, but Steve had a date. At _last_ , he had a date he could keep.  A kiss to look forward to.  A might-have-been to grab on to.  _Oh, Brooklyn. So many, many ways_ … He shivered.

Father Allan had said “ _guard against base lust, and be guided by love in all its forms.”_   He suspected that was harder than it sounded.  And Hansen was going to have opinions, too, that might not match up with Steve’s. Working out their physical relationship…well, aside from his aborted encounter with Jeff, he’d never had sex before; and Hansen had been having it since he was sixteen. Steve foresaw a lot of talking about it as they negotiated that difference.  He shivered again.

Boy, was he a mess.

They wouldn’t have too much to hash out before they got to kissing, would they?  They could probably kiss without any discussion at all.  He thought about that for a while—what would Hansen’s mouth be like?  Probably not like Peggy’s or that WAC’s.  Warm, yes; maybe soft; but that night on the church steps, Hansen had been so intense—Steve didn’t think his kiss would stay soft for long.  What would it be like to kiss someone so forceful? And his lips might be smooth, but his stubble would be rough beneath Steve’s mouth…

He had to stop obsessing about this. He was acting like a twelve year old girl with a crush.

This was going to be a balancing act in more ways than one.  But they were about to get one of Steve’s big responsibilities off his back for a while. Well, maybe.  They’d see.

They had decided to take the discussion to the makeshift infirmary so if Clint felt up to it, he could participate. If he was so upset at the thought of being left out that he convinced Coulson to bring him to San Francisco despite his injuries, Steve wouldn’t leave him out of this.  And it affected all the Avengers, so Clint should be there.

At the door to the infirmary, Steve looked to Sam, then Tony.  They were both serious, but any worry didn’t show.  His own nerves were steady.  Whatever might happen here, however it might change the Avengers, he was ready for it. He opened the door, and they went in.  Skye was there, sitting by the woman from Phil’s team—Melinda?—who’d been injured.  She was smiling and chatting with Thor. Sam crossed the room to whisper quietly with Clint’s doctor, and she nodded and rolled Melinda’s bed through the door into the adjacent room.  Skye followed, wrinkling her nose at Steve as she went.

And then Avengers were alone.  Natasha was sitting on the far side of Clint’s bed, holding his hand.  Barnes stood a few feet away from her at the foot of the bed.  Bruce sat on the other side, and Thor came to stand behind his chair, joining the loose cluster gathered around the bed.  Clint himself appeared to be sleeping. His eyes were closed and his face lax.

Steve faced his colleagues—and friends, too, better friends than he’d known.

“I want to start with an apology,” he said. “I left New York badly. I should have taken my phone so you could contact me.  I should have taken the time to explain where I was going.  I didn’t, and I apologize for that. I’ll give you that explanation now, if you want.”

“I want,” Natasha said.  Thor nodded.  Bruce and Barnes both looked at him but said nothing. Bruce, at least, had an encouraging expression on his face.  Barnes he couldn’t read.

He wondered how long it had been since he knew what Barnes’ expressions meant.  He should have noticed a lot sooner how far removed this man was from whom he had been before the Winter Soldier that he wasn’t the same person.  Barnes had kept him away, he guessed. He hadn’t had much of a chance to judge.

And Steve’d been hurt and angry about that, but… Barnes had been through so much pain.  It had changed him, and Steve couldn’t blame him for that.  He’d done what he’d had to do.  He’d come through it and was rebuilding his life; and from what Steve could see, he wasn’t a bad man.  He was trying.

But he wasn’t Bucky, and Steve couldn’t keep trying to find his friend in him.  It was pointless and self-destructive, and he was done with it. He took a deep breath and looked away from Barnes to direct his words to the whole group.

“I guess it’s not a secret that waking up seventy years into the future threw me for a loop,” he said.  “The Avengers, and later S.H.I.E.L.D., were a big part of how I found a purpose again.” He paused to look each of them in the eye.  That meant a lot to him. He wanted them to know it. “It took me a while to realize I might have a job, but it didn’t mean I was happy.  I lived with it for a long time, hoping it would get better some day; and then I lived with it because I was used to it.” He looked at the ground for a moment to gather himself for the next part before looking up again. “About two months ago, I was reminded how unhappy I was.  I needed to figure a better way out, and I couldn’t do it while I was in New York working as an Avenger.  So I packed up and took my bike on the road.  I thought maybe getting away would give me some space to think.”

He paused.  Everyone was looking at him attentively.  No one spoke.  After another deep breath, he continued.

“It’s been good and bad, on the road,” he said. “I learned some things. One of those things was: I realized—was made to realize—I’d been taking some risks I didn’t need to.  That hadn’t stopped while I was on the road, and it was easier to see when I was taking a road trip instead of in a fire fight. And finally I saw a priest here in San Francisco who pointed out to me that I was depressed, and maybe that had something to do with it.”  He sighed.  “Which isn’t an easy thing for a guy born in 1918 to accept, but there’s no denying it.”

Thor opened his mouth, shut it, then opened it again; but he didn’t seem to know what to say.  Steve waited.

“A warrior faces danger in every battle,” Thor said at last.  “Your fearlessness is a considerable part of what makes you an extraordinary soldier, one who is worthy to lead us.”

Steve nodded.  “That’s what I’ve been telling myself for a while,” he said. “It’s made it easy to pretend everything was okay.  But there’s a line between fearless and careless, and I’ve been walking on the wrong side of that line too often.  If it’s just me being stupid, I probably deserve it if my teeth get kicked in. If I do it while the Avengers are engaging an opponent, then I’m endangering all of you. That’s not okay with me. I need to be able to trust my judgement about when the risk is worth it.”  He sighed.  “Right now I can’t.”

He looked at Thor.  His expression was serious, his brow slightly furrowed. Steve wasn’t sure he understood; but then, Thor was never one for caution.

“Are you quitting the Avengers?” Natasha asked. Steve turned to face her. She wore the carefully blank face that meant she was upset.

“You don’t have to do that,” Bruce added. “We want you.  You’re part of this team, Steve; if you’re having some trouble, let us help you.  You don’t have to quit.”

Steve took a moment to smile gratefully at him before looking to Natasha again.

“I’m not quitting,” he said.  “I’m not sure I could quit permanently. I’d miss it.  Let’s call it a sabbatical.  I’m going to take some time off.”

“How much time?  What are you going to do instead?  Is that going to be enough for you to get over this?” Natasha asked.  She blinked a couple times before dropping her gaze to Clint’s face.

“Hey,” he said gently.  “It’s okay.  I want to do this.  I need it, yeah; but I want it, too.”  He looked at Bruce.  “It’s good that you’re willing to help, because I’m counting on it.”  He waited for Bruce’s nod before addressing the larger group again.  “I’m going to be seeing a psychiatrist.  I don’t have one yet, but Tony has some ideas.  So I’ll be around once a week on the days I have that appointment. Mondays, if we can swing it.”

“But not the rest of the time?” Clint asked from his bed.  His eyes were barely open.  He seemed calm. Accepting, even—but curious.

“If I stay in New York, it’ll be hard to step back the way I want to,” he said.  “I plan to be back September first.  Until then, I’ll be on the road some.  This trip—this has been good for me.  I’ve met some great people and seen some amazing places, and there are still some places I want to visit.  But I’ll find a home base to settle.”  He hesitated a moment.  “I’m thinking about Minneapolis.  I liked it the first time I went through, and it’s supposed to be pretty in the summer.”

“What’s in Minneapolis?” Barnes asked.

“Nothing I couldn’t find most places, probably,” Steve said.  He kept his eyes on Clint.  “But I liked it. I met a few people I liked, so I would have a head start on making some friends.  There’s a VA hospital there.  I might do some volunteer work with them.  I haven’t figured it all out.  But I’d rather go back to Minneapolis than throw a pin at a map.  It feels right to go back.  But there’s a complication.  Tony and Sam and I—we’ve talked about it, and we decided that your assault on LaGuardia-Rikers proved one thing:  the Avengers need Captain America.  He can’t disappear for four more months.”

“So you’ll do what?” Natasha asked. “Be on call all the time? Minneapolis is a fair distance from New York.  We won’t always have time for you to catch a flight.”

“That’s not what he’s saying.  Is it, Cap?” Clint asked.  “You want one of us to take over as Captain America until you’re back.”

“Is Sam dropping his job in DC and moving to New York while you’re gone?” Natasha asked.  Then startled comprehension came over her face.

“No,” Steve said.  “Not that Sam wouldn’t be great at it, because he would.” He shot Sam half a smile. “But he has responsibilities in DC that he doesn’t want to give up, and we thought it’d be better to try to cover up the fact that Captain America wasn’t Steve Rogers.  That’s hard to do if it’s Sam.”  He took a deep breath.  “No.  We were thinking about someone else.“ He exhaled hard again and looked directly at Barnes.  “Barnes. Would you be willing to carry the shield for a while?  Be Captain America while I’m gone.”

Barnes frowned at him.

“I’m not—“ he said.  He looked away for a long moment, then back at Steve. The puzzled frown never left his face.  “I’ll fight, but I’m not him.  I can’t— I’m the Winter Soldier.”

“That’s who you have been,” Steve agreed. “That’s not who you have to be. I’m not asking forever—only for a few months.  But it’s your choice.”

“It’s who I am,” Barnes repeated.  “No one will believe I’m Captain America.”

“You’d be surprised what a cowl hides,” Steve said.

“It’s a big change from your usual uniform,” Tony added.  “Less Terrifying Death, more Spangles.  But that’ll help.  No one’s going to believe it’s you in such a gaudy costume.”

Steve narrowed his eyes at Tony so he knew Steve was annoyed.  Tony smirked unrepentantly at him.

“Your fighting styles are different,” Natasha added unexpectedly.  “But not so different as you might think. And I agree with Tony and Steve. That uniform—it’s hard to see past it.”

“It draws attention,” Barnes said.

“Yes,” Natasha agreed.  “But not to the wearer—to _it_. It could work.”

Barnes didn’t reply, only stared blankly at the foot of Clint’s bed.

“Barnes,” Steve said.  His head came up abruptly, and he stared at Steve.  “No one’s going to make you pick up the shield. I know what it’s like to carry it, and if you don’t want it—it’s a lot if you don’t want it.  But don’t leave it because you think you can’t. I know you can.”

 “Look me in the eye and call me that,” he said.

“What?” Steve asked.  “Captain America?”

 “Fuck that,” he said.  “Look me in the eye and call me ‘Barnes.’”

 Steve closed his eyes.  He’d known this moment was coming.  He’d known it would be hard.  He’d known it would hurt.

He hadn’t expected to feel sorry about it.

But hearing that tone in his friend’s voice—he did.  He felt sorry and guilty.  He wanted to take it back and make it better.  To make it easy and right, the way it had been—before the serum and the war and a long fall from a train.  Before the Winter Soldier.

 Nothing had been easy between the two of them since, and it might not ever be. Steve hoped someday they might be able to be cordial.  Colleagues. But to be friends again, the way they were before…

He brought those six months after Bucky’s surrender to mind:  pacing outside his hospital room, always turned away; extending his hand to his friend to have it rejected every time; shut out and seeking a lifeline and finding a stranger looking out of his friend’s eyes. 

_I don’t want him in my life_ , he’d said.

This man who had Bucky’s voice and wore Bucky’s face:  he wasn’t Bucky.  Bucky had died in 1945.

Steve squared his shoulders, firmed his jaw, and looked him right in the eye.

“Barnes,” he said.

His face twisted, Barnes lunged at Steve, punching him in the face. Steve stumbled back, and Barnes punched him once more before Tony and Thor pried him off Steve. Natasha darted between him and Steve.

“Don’t do it, James,” she warned.

Barnes shook off Tony and Thor and panted as he scowled at Steve.

“That, right there,” he said.  “I’m Bucky to you.  You can’t bring yourself to hit back.”

“No,” Steve said.  “That’s how I know you’re Barnes.”  He blinked his eyes a couple times and wiped away the blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “Because Bucky would never have been the one on the other side of the fist.  Bucky always protected me from bullies.  Always.”  He swallowed hard, and set his jaw one more time; and he left the room.


	44. Not My Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last week, in chapter 43, "Fallout":
> 
>  
> 
> _“That, right there,” he said. “I’m Bucky to you. You can’t bring yourself to hit back.”_
> 
>  
> 
> _“No,” Steve said. “That’s how I know you’re Barnes.” He blinked his eyes a couple times and wiped away the blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “Because Bucky would never have been the one on the other side of the fist. Bucky always protected me from bullies. Always.” He swallowed hard, and set his jaw one more time; and he left the room._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank those of you who left kind words on yesterday's tumblr post, and all of you for your understanding and patience. It was a relief to be able to set this aside for a while. We're still waiting to hear about our friend, but it is sadly just a matter of time. His brain damage is too severe.
> 
> Okay. Moving on:
> 
> This chapter is a solid length, and there's more Bucky than I had thought there was going to be--so that's good news for all of y'all insisting that it was time to hear from him. Word of warning about it: sometimes folks say in the comments that they "skimmed" a chapter or two or ten. If you do that here, with Bucky...there's no way you can understand his POV if you don't pay attention. I try to give you a view inside his head, and it is a confusing place, and about half the time I don't identify which alter is speaking. You should know enough about each of them by now to be able to tell when they switch, but...well, it's not _As I Lay Dying_ but I wouldn't skim.
> 
> And btw? Thor? Damn, is he hard to write. I did my best to get his voice right, but... I have so much more sympathy for writers whose Thor I've read and thought, "Eh. Not quite."

***

_April 20th_

 

Steve found Phil in the Bus’ Command Center along with the bashful, pretty woman he’d seen with Skye earlier.

 

“Captain Rogers,” he said in greeting. “We’re about two minutes away from the St. Regis.  I’ve asked Agent Triplett to land on the roof.  Hotel staff, including a staff EMT, are waiting to assist you and your team in whatever you need.”  He paused to smile at Steve.  “I took the liberty of reserving a few rooms for the Avengers and charging them to Mister Stark.”

 

Steve laughed out loud before suppressing it. “Thank you.  I’m sure it will be appreciated.  And Tony can afford it.”

 

“That’s what I thought,” Phil replied. “Is there anything else we can do for you before we leave San Francisco?”

 

Steve shook his head.  “I’m grateful for what you’ve done already.  We can take it from here.”

 

Phil hesitated momentarily.  He was a confident, sure man; the way he turned into a shy, stuttering fan was strange to Steve.  He’d adjusted to having so many fans, but they were usually kids. Phil Coulson was a seasoned agent and S.H.I.E.L.D.’s director, but he got nervous around Steve.

 

“I’m glad we could be here,” he said. “The world needs you, Captain.”

 

Steve smiled wryly.  “It’s stuck with me a while longer at any rate.”

 

Unexpectedly, the woman joined their conversation.

 

“My deepest condolences on your loss, Captain,” she said.  “Director Carter was a true hero and an inspiration to so many of us.”  She was British; and though her voice was soft where Peggy’s had been crisp, hearing her accent was bittersweet.

 

“Thank you,” he said.  “She was to me, all the way to the end.”  He smiled weakly.  “I miss her.”

 

“Oh,” the woman said.  She’d brought her hand to her chest and was blinking back tears. “Oh.”

 

“Captain Rogers, this is Doctor Jemma Simmons,” Phil said.  “She’s an invaluable member of our science division.”

 

Steve extended his hand.  “Good to meet you.”

 

Still blinking back tears, she shook her head; and suddenly she was holding him tight.

 

“I don’t care how nice Thor’s arms are,” she said in a wavering voice.  “You’re my favorite.”

 

Phil suppressed a smile as a stunned Steve closed his arms around her back and groped for something to say.

 

“Thank you,” he said at last.  “That’s quite a compliment.”

 

“It is,” she agreed, pulling back to smile at him. “But a proper appreciation of Peggy Carter’s brilliance—that’s rare.”  Blushing, she patted him on the bicep before stepping back. “And your arms are very nice as well.  Should your uniform be sleeveless, I’m sure you would have quite as many fans as he.” She stepped back again and turned to Phil.  “Please excuse me, sir. I should go check on Agent May.”

 

Phil nodded.

 

“When I left, Thor was still there,” Steve said.

 

She straightened her back and brushed away her tears.

 

“Perhaps I’ll just powder my nose along the way,” she said.  She lowered her voice. “They truly are superlative arms.”

 

What a doll.  He smiled at her and leaned in close.

 

“I know,” he confided with a wink. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Doctor Simmons.”

 

She blushed deeper and fluttered a little. “Captain,” she said, and then she was gone.

 

Steve turned back to Phil, who was regarding him with raised eyebrows and half a smile.

 

“She may not have seemed it, but Doctor Simmons isn’t that easily impressed,” he said.  “I think that might be the first time I’ve seen you use the Captain America Charm like that.”

 

Steve didn’t try to hold back his smile.

 

“Nah,” he said.  “That wasn’t Captain America.  That’s all Steve Rogers.”

 

At that moment, a man’s voice came over the comm.

 

“We’re here, Director,” it said. Must be the pilot.

 

“Thanks, Antoine,” Phil said.  “Let’s debark our passengers quickly. I’d like to take off again in half an hour.”

 

“Will do,” the pilot replied.

 

“I’m going to get a head start,” Steve told Phil. “Thanks again.”

 

“Any time, Captain,” Phil said.  He wavered slightly on his feet.  For a moment, Steve thought he might hug him, too; but in the end he held out his hand.  Steve shook it and turned to head for the exit.

 

He needed some time alone and a hot shower in the worst way.  If he hurried, he might be able to get both before the rest of the Avengers descended on him again. He smiled to himself.

 

Maybe even make a phone call.

***

_Should have called Hansen before the shower_ was Steve’s first thought when he exited the bathroom, plush towel wrapped around his waist, to find Natasha sitting on his bed waiting for him.

 

“This is awkward,” he quipped.

 

One corner of her mouth lifted into half a smile. When her gaze landed on his scarred shoulder, that smile dropped away.  She stood and walked towards him, her eyes never leaving his shoulder.  She lifted her hand, but stopped just short of touching the scars.  Her hand hovered uncertainly some inches away.

 

“What happened?” she asked, transferring her searching gaze to his face.  “Is this what you meant?  When you said ‘you realized you were taking risks you didn’t need to?’”

 

Steve nodded.  He didn’t try to look away.  Natasha would sense any prevarication.  His only hope of keeping how bad it had gotten for him secret from her would be the same way he had handled it with the whole team. Be as straight as possible. Volunteer information, even. Brazen it through. Maybe it wouldn’t occur to her.  She never gave up.  She might not think he might.

 

“One of the places I went was Yellowstone National Park,” he said.  “I hadn’t realized it was too early in the year.  Lots of the park was closed.  I was a jerk and didn’t let that stop me.  I went into a part of the park that was off limits.  Later I learned that’s because during the spring grizzly bears range farther to find what they need to eat, so their territory expands into areas of the park that are pretty safe in the summer.  I ran into one while I was on one of the trails, and it took a dislike to me.”  He smiled wryly.  “Turns out grizzlies are faster than you might think.”

 

“Was that when you called Tony?” she asked.

 

“It was a park ranger who called,” he said. “I’d left my pack on my bike, and my phone was in it.  But yeah, that’s when Tony came.”  _Volunteer information_ , he reminded himself.  “I’m lucky he did.  He probably saved my life.”

 

She nodded absently, still searching his face.

 

“I didn’t ask earlier,” she said at last. “If you had heard about Peggy Carter’s death.”

 

This was getting close.  _Brazen through_.

 

“Yes,” he said.  “I talked to Sam that same day, in the morning. He told me.”

 

“I’m sorry,” she said.

 

He nodded.  “She hardly ever recognized me, towards the end. If she did, she thought it was during the war.  So I knew it was coming, but…  It was hard.”

 

She bit her lip as they regarded each other in silence.

 

“It meant a lot to me,” she said after a while. “When you said you trusted me.”

 

“I do.”

 

She nodded slowly, still worrying at her lip.

 

“But you didn’t tell me about this. We worked together, and I never suspected you were depressed,” she said.  “And then, with James—I thought you were extraordinarily patient with him.  It was unbelievable to me how much you put up with, never letting it get to you.  I didn’t realize—it _wasn’t_ believable. It all got to you.”

 

He smiled weakly.  “It’s not because I don’t trust you I didn’t tell you,” he told her.  “I didn’t tell anyone. Tasha, I was killing myself trying not to know.”  He winced internally at his choice of words.  Sure enough, her eyes widened.  He forced himself to keep smiling, even if it was a pitiful effort.

 

“Steve?” she said.  Whatever she saw in his face made her eyes gloss over. “Not that many people trust me, you know.  I can’t afford to lose one of them.”

 

His smile widened even as his own eyes grew wet. “You haven’t lost me. I’m hard to get rid of.” He tried to lighten the moment. “I’d hug you, but I’m not wearing any clothes.”

 

“I hugged you when you were covered with concrete dust and who knows what else,” she said.  “I’m not scared of your hairless chest, Rogers.” She wrapped her arms around him, and he sighed and held her tight.

 

“There’s just one thing that bothers me about the way you left,” she said after a minute.  They were still holding each other.

 

“What’s that?” he asked.

 

“Why did you write Tony instead of me?” she asked.

 

He huffed with laughter.

 

“Are you kidding?” he asked.  “I didn’t dare lie to you.  Tony I thought I could fool.”

 

“Then that’s all right.”  She leaned against his chest, breathing peacefully, for a few more moments before pulling back to look him in the eye. “Oh, one more thing,” she said. “Who’s Hansen?”

 

***

 

After Natasha left, Steve dressed and sat on the bed for a minute with his phone in his hand.  It was one thing to plan out what he wanted with Sam and Tony; but it was pretty presumptuous to move to Minneapolis, even temporarily, on the basis of a phone call.

 

But…Hansen _had_ called.  _Half in love with_ , he’d said. Maybe he’d be put off, but Steve thought there was a decent chance Hansen’d be just as excited about it as he was.  And Steve wasn’t planning on living with him or following him around or monopolizing his time. Hansen had a life, and Steve didn’t expect him to drop everything for him.

 

But dinner sometimes; maybe going to a baseball game? Kissing, hopefully a lot of it? More, even…

 

Yeah, Steve was hoping for all of that.

 

If Hansen was put off…maybe Chicago? DC, if that’s all Sam and Tony would go for.  No way was he going back to New York if it meant he had to live at the Tower.

 

He took a deep breath and dialed Hansen’s number.

 

_The number you were trying to reach has calling restrictions which prevent your call from being completed at this time_.

 

Really?  But… He tried again, and it was the same thing.  Why wouldn’t Hansen—? Steve had said he was going to call.  Hansen had replied, “ _You do that_.”  But his number was still blocked.

 

Maybe he forgot?  Didn’t seem to Steve like the kind of thing a guy forgot, but…

 

Steve was too hopeful and too curious to let it go this time. He opened up his email.

 

_I tried to call but your number’s still blocked. I have this idea that’s a little crazy so I want to talk to you about it, but I’ll wait until I can get to a computer.  Or you call me. Steve_

 

He set his phone on the bedside table and picked up his boots.  If they couldn’t be salvaged, he was going to have wear slippers borrowed from the hotel to go buy another pair; because these were the only shoes he had. He really didn’t want to do that. Shopping was not his favorite activity.

 

He was still scrubbing them off when his phone rang. It was Hansen.

 

“Hey,” he said.  “That was fast.”

 

“I’m at my computer watching the news about the earthquake,” Hansen replied.  “I’ve got a question for you.  This an okay time?”

 

“Sure,” Steve said.  “I don’t know how long it’ll be until someone barges in here, but I’ve got a few minutes to talk and some privacy for now.”

 

“So you tried to call me earlier, but my phone was blocked?” Hansen asked.

 

“Yeah,” Steve said.  “I mean, I think so.  It didn’t ring or go to voicemail.  I got a pre-recorded message about ‘calling restrictions.’”

 

There was silence on the line.

 

“Hansen?” he asked.

 

“In your email, you said _still_ blocked,” Hansen said.  Whoa, did he sound mad. “Does that mean you tried to call me before today but didn’t get through?”

 

“Well, yeah,” he said.  “I didn’t think to check my email until that Sunday, but—  I tried to call you after I read your email.  And I got that message that said there were calling restrictions on your phone. So I didn’t try again. Seemed like a pretty clear ‘I don’t want to hear from you,’ you know?  And I thought that meant you didn’t want a reply to your email either.”

 

“Yeah, that’s the way I’d have taken it,” Hansen said. He sighed.  “I’m gonna call you back, okay?  I’m going to lift that block first thing, and I’m going to do some amateur sleuthing; and then I’ll call you back, and you can tell me this crazy idea of yours.  Or you call me.  Call me as much as you want.  I’m sorry about my phone being blocked.  I want to hear from you.  I _really_ want to hear from you.”

 

“Hansen?” Steve asked.

 

“I didn’t block you from calling me,” he said. “I think I know who did, and even when it happened; but innocent until proven guilty, right?  So I’m just going to make another call, because I really need to yell at somebody about this and it should probably be _my fucking sister_ instead of you.  And then I’ll call you back.”

 

“I don’t want to cause problems for you with your family—“ Steve said. 

 

“Stop right there,” Hansen said.  “ _You_ haven’t caused any problems. _She_ caused the problem, and it’s a problem with her and me and you’ve got nothing to do with it, okay? Being an only child, you wouldn’t know this, but little sisters are the biggest fucking nuisance and you would think I would be the overprotective one but believe me I’m not. I’m only—  _Shit_.  I’m sorry that happened when you called because that had to be a fucking kick in the teeth, and I’m so pissed that we didn’t get a chance to talk two weeks ago, and I’m so damn glad I gave up and called you today. _And_ I was hoping I might have a little longer before I had to subject you to my crazy family, but what can you do.”

 

They hung up and Steve held his phone in his hands and stared at it for a moment.  Hansen _hadn’t_ blocked his call.  That was good news—great news, even.  Hansen hadn’t shut him out entirely, then changed his mind after seeing Steve on the news; he’d been willing to talk to Steve if he had called two weeks ago. He couldn’t change what had happened since, what he’d done.  He didn’t know if it would have been enough, to know that Hansen wanted him, when he learned that Peggy died…though it might at least have given him someone to listen and hold him when he needed it.

 

But…

 

He wished he hadn’t tried to kill himself. He regretted it, and he was ashamed of it, and he was so glad that park ranger had thought to look in his pack for a phone.  But aside from that momentary despair, he wouldn’t take back any of what had happened since. Maybe there was some truth to the idea that a guy had to go as far down as he could before he could turn his life around.  Maybe not. Maybe it would have happened a different way.

 

But he didn’t think he’d ever have gotten as close to Tony as he had without that spur.  He’d never have let Tony in like that, and vice versa.  And mad as he was that Tony had kept the Avengers’ attack on Hydra from him, he was grateful to him, too.  Tony had saved his life, and cared for him when he could barely care about himself, and stayed by his side while he tried to pull himself back together.  Tony was still worrying about him and trying to keep him safe.  In a lot of ways he was about as different from Steve as could be, but…

 

He’d joined Natasha and Sam as one of the few friends Steve knew had his back.  Bruce, Clint, Thor—maybe it was time to open up a little and see if it might be the same with them.  It hadn’t been comfortable, exactly, telling them some about why he’d gone on the road; but it had been fine.  They’d been understanding, except for Thor—and he didn’t disapprove so much as he didn’t understand. Bruce had known right away what Steve had done, but he’d accepted Steve anyway.  He’d told him he mattered to them.  And Steve—he felt a little lighter for it.  A little easier.

 

It hadn’t been all bad since he left Minneapolis. He wouldn’t take it back—none of it but giving up and putting himself in reach of a grizzly’s claws.

 

He sighed, put his phone down, and went back to his boots.  He thought they could be saved; which was good, because Steve wanted to do what he had to do and get back on the road.  He finished cleaning his boots while he thought about how quick he could shoo the other Avengers away.  Sam knocked on the door just as he was tying up his laces.  He was carrying his duffel.

 

“Hey,” he said.  “I didn’t really unpack, so I’m set to go.”  He swung his bag up on the bed.  “Is there room on your motorcycle for this? Or am I going to have to get by with a toothbrush and a change of underwear?”

 

Steve smiled.  This was going to be great.  He hadn’t been ready for company when he left New York, but he was looking forward to having Sam’s company for the next leg of this journey. He’d had enough time alone with his thoughts.  It’d be good to have a friend to talk to.

 

“It might be tight,” he said.  “You can have more than a toothbrush, but—I’d guess I only have space for about half that.  Next time I do this, I’m getting a touring bike. But right now we’re stuck with what storage I’ve got.”

 

“I’ll make it work,” Sam said.  “And Tony will send the rest back to DC for me.” He paused.  “L.A. tomorrow, and the Grand Canyon two days after that? That’s some distance to cover.”

 

“A little less than half a day to L.A., and a little more than that to the Grand Canyon,” Steve said.  “A long ride is a good time to think.”

 

“We’re going to have plenty of time to think, then,” Sam said.  He sighed. “I’m going to go repack.”

 

Steve nodded.  “I’m about ready to brave the crowd.”

 

“Not much of a crowd anymore,” Sam said. “Natasha went to join Clint in their room.  Bruce went with Tony; I think he was going to try to calm down some.  Nobody was real happy after you walked out. So it’s just Thor, and…”

 

“Barnes,” Steve said grimly.

 

Sam nodded.  “Even if he decides to be Captain America, he’s not going to slot right in, you know,” he said.  “Nobody doubts his competence as a fighter.  But they don’t trust him the way they trust you. And after you left—“ He shook his head and sighed. “Let’s just say nobody was feeling the love.”

 

Well, he hadn’t thought it would just be like handing over the baton in a relay race.  Steve took a deep breath and stood.

 

“After you,” he said.  Sam met his eyes briefly and nodded again before he turned to leave.

 

Sam always had his back.  He and Tony would have muddled through without him, he guessed; that or beat up on each other until they couldn’t move. But Sam—Sam made everything easy.

 

He followed Sam out of the bedroom into the hotel suite’s large living space.  Steve hadn’t admitted it to Tony (and he wasn’t planning to), but he liked the clean lines and neutral minimalism of the St. Regis.  Thor was waiting by the desk, looking out the window over the city skyline.  He was incongruous in his armor, his red cape the only splash of bright color in the room; but Thor would draw attention in a circus, even dressed in normal clothing. Barnes was on the far side of the room, his back against the wall near the smaller seating area. Steve met his eyes briefly. Barnes’ face was emotionless. Steve had no idea what he might want.  He nodded once in greeting before turning most of his attention back to Thor.  There was a bit of him still focused on Barnes, but… It might be that way for awhile. He let it be.

 

“Thor,” he greeted him.  “I didn’t have a chance to say before. It’s good to see you.”

 

Thor smiled widely and reached out to grasp Steve’s forearm.  Automatically Steve returned his grasp, and Thor used it to pull Steve into a hug.

 

“I have missed you as well, my friend,” he said. “Life on Asgard has grown wearying for me.  I was grateful for the chance to come.  I will stay until my father orders me to return, and I suspect that may be some time. He seemed content to see me go.”

 

“I’m glad,” Steve said.  “So I’ll see you when I’m in New York—unless you’re planning to spend all your time with Doctor Foster?”

 

“I will go to London directly from here,” Thor said. “I will stay some while with my lady Jane, but I will also visit New York—and time my visits to overlap with yours, if possible.”  He hesitated. “I would not pry, Captain; and Bruce tells me this is a subject of some sensitivity.  But this psychiatrist—it is a doctor of the mind? How does such a doctor treat you? We have nothing like it on Asgard.”

 

“I think it’s mostly talking,” Steve replied. “Maybe some medicine, if the doctor thinks it’ll help.  S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted me to see a psychiatrist when I first woke up, to help me adjust to this time.  I didn’t want to; and after the battle of New York, I guess they decided I’d be all right without it. Might have been better if I hadn’t been so stubborn about it, or if they had insisted.  I’d have done this lots sooner.”

 

“You’re doing it now,” Sam said.  “No point worrying about whether you should have done it before.”

 

“I guess,” Steve said.

 

“But how can mere speech heal you?” Thor asked.

 

Steve shrugged.  “I don’t know.  I won’t until I try it.  But I said I’d do this, and people I trust have told me it’s a good thing. If it doesn’t help, I’ll quit. Find something else.”

 

Thor nodded slowly.  “Well enough.”

 

“I appreciate your concern,” Steve said. “It matters a lot to me.”

 

“Of course,” Thor said.  “You are our leader and my friend.  I care greatly about your fate.”

 

“Thanks,” Steve said.  Thor’s solemn, caring gaze focused only on him was beginning to bring tears to his eyes again.  Time to change the subject.  “Have you seen your room?  I guess it might not be so far off what you’re used to, but this is a bit much for me. And Tony got me the biggest room in the whole place.  You should have seen the place we stayed in Wyoming.  I think he likes making me uncomfortable.”

 

“Nay,” Thor said.  “I will retire there when Natasha comes to relieve me.”

 

Steve’s eyebrows went up.  “Am I under guard?” he asked.

 

“I am,” Barnes said.  Steve looked at him, still leaning against the far wall, then back to Thor.  Thor nodded.

 

“He struck you,” he said.  “We discussed it—the rest of the Avengers—and we have agreed.  He will not be allowed near you without another present.”

 

“I said I wouldn’t hit him again,” Barnes said.

 

“I care nothing for your words, miscreant,” Thor said. It had been a long time since Steve had heard that kind of anger in Thor’s voice.  “I know you not at all, save that you struck our captain with no provocation.  His worth, I know.  Yours? I doubt you have any.”

 

“Thor,” Steve said.  “You haven’t been here, okay?  You don’t know.  The issues he and I have—they’re nothing to do with the other Avengers. You need to give him a chance if you’re going to be a team.”

 

“I will not follow him,” Thor said. “Nor do I trust him enough to fight by his side.”

 

Steve sighed.  “Tony will continue to lead, for now, with Natasha’s help. But you and Barnes need to be able to work together.”

 

Thor looked out the window again.  He didn’t answer.

 

“It won’t work,” Barnes said.  “None of them will have me on the team. Natasha, maybe; but even she…It was stupid to hit you.”

 

Thor rounded on him.  “That is your response?  ‘It was stupid?’  It was contemptible.”

 

Barnes’ weight shifted as Thor advanced on him, and Steve saw the Winter Soldier in it.

 

“Shit,” Sam muttered under his breath, as he and Steve hurried to intervene.  “We’re about a minute thirty from someone going through a window, is my guess.”

 

“This is not happening,” Steve said, stepping between Thor and Barnes.  “We fight among ourselves, we’ve already lost.  You know it as well as I do, Thor.”  He turned to look at Barnes.

 

“I won’t engage,” Barnes said.  “Not unless he does.”

 

“He’s not going to engage,” Steve told Barnes before turning back to Thor.  “Is he.”

 

“I will act only in your defense,” Thor said.

 

Steve nodded and looked at Barnes.

 

“What do you want?” he asked him.

 

Barnes looked at him without speaking for a few seconds.  His face…Steve didn’t know what it did.  But he went from on guard up a notch to edgy.

 

“I want to know why you ran,” he said at last. “And—when I was pulling you out of that hole, you said you were letting go of me.  That I wasn’t your friend anymore.”  He grimaced and fell silent; not like he was done, but like he was trying to figure out what to say.  His mouth was set in a thin line, and his eyes…

 

It was so hard.  So hard not to cross those few feet separating them. So hard not to say, _forget it. None of it matters. You and me—we’re ’till the end of the line._

 

***

 

_Stevie don’t say that_ , Bucky whispered.

 

_Just stay put, okay?  Stay safe_ , Buck said.  _I’ll tell him.  I’ll fix this._

 

_Stevie please don’t i’m sorry_

 

_I’ll fix it,_ Buck said.  _I messed up but I can fix it._

 

_sorry sorry sorry so sorry Stevie_

 

“I gotta fix this,” Buck said aloud. “That’s not okay. That’s not—I’m sorry I shut you out and treated you like shit and whatever the hell else.  But you—” 

 

_Stevie please please i’m sorry sorry never want to hurt you Stevie Stevie Stevie sorry please_

 

Steve’s jaw clenched.  He didn’t say anything.  Wilson stepped up behind him, hand on his shoulder.

 

_why can’t i sorry weak weak weak should be me got Stevie’s back sorry i’m weak sorry i_

 

Bucky made an aborted move towards the exit of his safe hole, but stopped before he came out.  _can’t can’t can’t can’t Stevie got to can’t Stevie sorry_ His voice trailed off into a wordless keen and all three of them shook with his sobbing.

 

_It’s okay_ , Buck told him.  _You’re safe.  You don’t gotta worry.  I’m gonna fix it._

 

“I’m sorry,” he said aloud.

 

_He needs to come back to New York_ , the Winter Soldier said. _I want him where I can see him._

 

_Shut the hell up.  I’m fixing this._

 

_Can you?_

 

_‘Course I can._

 

_sorry Stevie i’m sorry Stevie gotta tell him_

 

“Please, Steve,” Buck said.  “You—Don’t walk away. I’m your oldest friend. I wasn’t paying attention and I’m sorry but this isn’t right.”  He reached into his pocket and that asshole Thor readied his hammer. Buck froze.

 

_I said I wouldn’t engage_.

 

_I’m not fucking engaging_ , Buck snarled.

 

_Thor is a legitimate threat.  I don’t know his capabilities._

 

_He’s strong enough to pin the fucking arm. We ever do ‘engage’ him we should do it from a fucking sniper’s nest._

 

_Agreed._

_Fuck you.  I wasn’t saying we should take him out._

 

_He is a legitimate threat._   Buck got ready, but— _I said I wouldn’t engage._

 

Thank fuck.  _Damn right you did._

 

And all the while, echoing out of Buck’s hiding place: _can’t can’t can’t can’t Stevie my friend my friend can’t sorry please don’t leave me Stevie my friend my friend i can’t_

 

Buck didn’t see how he could get any fucking crazier than he already was but it damn well felt like he might.

 

“I ain’t planning anything,” he said aloud. He focused on Steve; but kept Thor in his peripheral vision, just in case.  “I wanted to give you this.”  He held out Doc’s card.

 

Steve didn’t move for a long time.

 

“A guy can’t be concerned about his oldest friend?” Buck asked.  “If you ain’t ready to talk, fine.  I’ll wait. But take the damn card and for God’s sake don’t leave New York like this.  You know Minneapolis is the fucking Midwest, right? It’s gonna drive you crazy inside a week.”

 

Steve took a deep breath, swallowed, and—God damn it—set his fucking jaw.  _Fuck._

 

_Steve no please don’t_

 

“If you were ‘concerned about your oldest friend…’” he finally said.  “If you were ‘concerned about your oldest friend, we’d have spent more than half an hour in the same room when it wasn’t related to Avenger business. We’d have gone to the movies or out for a burger.  You’d have a key to my apartment instead of never having even been there.  I’d know your damn phone number, because we’d have talked on the phone at least once in the past twelve months.”  He stopped for a moment.  His voice was thick when he continued. “If you were ‘interested in being my friend,’ you wouldn’t have done everything you could to show me that was the last thing you wanted.  If you’re going to work with the Avengers, you’re going to have to ‘put up with me while we’re working.’  I can’t do anything about it.  But the good news is:  I finally ‘took a fucking hint.’  I’m out of your life—and that means you’re out of mine.  You have no say in what I do.”

 

_Oh, fuck. Damn it all._

 

“You listened to me and Natasha,” Buck said.

 

“Not on purpose,” Steve said.  “Not long.  But I heard enough to know we were done being friends, you and me.”

 

Bucky wailed again and didn’t stop. _Stevie please Stevie please don’t don’t say that my friend my friend my friend my friend my no Stevie_

 

_Shit_. He’d done this. And Bucky…

 

_It’s okay_ , he murmured.  _I’ll fix it._

 

_How?_

 

_I don’t fucking know_

 

_You can’t._

 

_Fuck you I can and I will would you just shut up for a goddamn minute?_

 

He didn’t know if he could.  Shit.  He had to.  Bucky would never get over it.  How, though…he had no idea, and Bucky was wailing so hard he couldn’t think.  _Steve.  Goddamn it, please don’t, Steve._

 

_Stevie Stevie Stevie sorry_   Bucky made another try at coming out of his safe place, but he pulled up short again, trembling.  _can’t can’t can’t can’t can’t can’t sorry sorry STEVIE_

 

_You wanna try?_ Buck coaxed.  _He might listen to you.  I’ll keep you safe._

 

_can’t can’t can’t can’t can’t sorry_

 

_Okay_ , Buck said.  _It’s okay.  It’s okay. I fucked up so it’s not gonna be easy but I can fix it._

 

_my friend my friend Stevie’s my friend he’s my friend_

 

Goddamn it.  He couldn’t think.

 

“I never thought I’d see the day Steve Rogers quit,” he said.  “You wanna run away to Minneapolis, be my guest.  You wanna throw away a friendship you’ve had since we were seven, I can’t stop you.”  Ignoring the way all three of them tensed, he crossed the space between Steve and him. “But do me one last fucking favor and take the damn card, okay?  Doc’s the best.  She’s— She can help.” He pressed his lips shut and pushed Doc’s card into Steve’s hand.  Steve’s face was pale and his eyes—  Buck couldn’t meet his eyes.  But Steve took the card at last.  Buck fled.  His hands were trembling so hard when he got to his room that he couldn’t fit the key card in the lock.  He gave up, put his left arm to it, and pushed his way in.  He shut the door behind him and sank down with his back against the wall and his arms around his knees.

 

_Stevie Stevie Stevie Stevie Stevie Stevie Stevie Stevie Stevie Stevie Stevie Stevie Stevie Stevie_

 

What the hell had just happened?  His stomach cramped and he curled up around it, shaking.  The look on Steve’s face…  Had Steve looked like that on the helicarrier?  Fuck. When his mom died? He couldn’t fucking remember. He let the tears come.

 

What had he done?  Shit, he’d pushed Steve away; he knew he’d pushed, but…You could push at the tide but you couldn’t stop it.  It just kept coming back.

 

He’d fucking done the impossible after all.

 

_He’s my mission_ , the Soldier said suddenly.  His tone was implacable.

 

_Would you fucking leave it?_ Buck told him. _Just leave it for two fucking minutes.  Can’t you hear what this is doing to Bucky?_

 

_No_ , the Winter Soldier said.  _He hides from me._

 

_Do you blame him?_ Buck asked exasperatedly.

 

_No_.  The Soldier’s voice was bleak.  Fuck. Buck ignored it. He had no time for him and his pity party right now.

 

_It’s okay_ , he murmured to Bucky.  _It’s Steve.  He says stuff.  He’s mad but he didn’t mean it.  I’m sorry I fucked up but it’s not—I’ll make it better.  I’ll fix it._

 

_Steve my friend my friend my friend_ , Bucky wailed

 

_Shit_. He’d fucked up. He’d fucked up so damn bad, and he had no idea how he was gonna fix it.

 

_You can’t_ , the Soldier told him.

 

_Shut the fuck up_ , Buck said.  _Like you could do better._

 

_I can’t make it any worse._

 

_You could complete your goddamn mission,_ Buck replied. _Maybe he hates us but he’s alive._

 

_no no no no no no no Stevie_

 

The Soldier was silent.

 

The look in Steve’s eyes…  Fuck.

 

The tears kept coming, but it didn’t matter. No one was going to hear him. It was all on the inside.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The mystery of Hansen's blocked phone is revealed.](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/108745523788/too-easy-but-its-a-start)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> One last note: some commenters have asked why none of the Avengers have told Steve about Bucky's DID. Some of it's that there hasn't been a minute since they met up with him that hasn't been Filled With Drama, but also: _it's not their right._ It's not like telling Steve he has the flu. No one has the right to tell someone else about a person's mental illness without their permission. It is the equivalent of outing them. It's a huge violation. HUGE.
> 
> Which isn't to say that a character in one of my fics might not do something as awful as that at one point or another, because clearly I would totally write that. But this is Bucky's call, and none of the Avengers will say anything to Steve unless they think his life is in imminent danger from the Winter Soldier.
> 
> *hops off soap box*


	45. Taking Up the Shield

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank all of y'all for your thoughts and prayers for me, and for your patience while waiting for this delayed chapter. This week has been easier than last, but it hasn't been easy for me to write. I knew where this chapter needed to go, but it was a struggle for me to concentrate.
> 
> Our friend died a week ago today, less than twenty-four hours after life support was removed. He touched a lot of lives, and we're going to miss him a lot; and hard as it is for those of us who were his friends, I can't stop thinking about his family. I wish he could have woken up enough to say goodbye, or...something. I don't know what. It's been really tough for them, though. It's such a hard decision.
> 
> I'm soooo far behind on comments, too--but thank you for those, and I'm going to spend some time responding to those this week. My husband and the Big Kids will be gone this weekend, so it should be quiet around the house. I'm hoping to catch up a bit.
> 
> I've added a final chapter count (though it's a guess, not a firm number) and edited the tags slightly, btw. A few chapters ago, I added an "infidelity" tag at a reader's request because of Natasha's actions with Bucky. But it hasn't sat right with me, because I don't think that's really what happens in chapter one. It's not something she and Clint promised each other when they married, and neither of them thinks of it as being unfaithful. And I did it not because I thought it was infidelity, but because I felt pressured to do so. So I've changed it to "open relationship." I feel more comfortable with that, and hopefully that will be enough of a warning for anyone who's bothered by such things.
> 
> The other tag, well. I really have no idea how anyone's going to react to that...but I have NO COMMENT until the relevant chapter... So react all you would like! Just know any response I have is [REDACTED].

***

_April 21 st_

 

He hadn’t moved from his place on the floor and hadn’t slept much all night, so Buck was slow to rouse to the knock on the door.  The Winter Soldier drew his Sig, stood and backed away, targeting the door as he did.

 

Tony Stark pushed the door open.  He eased back and pointed the Sig at the floor.

 

“Something wrong with your key card?” Stark asked.

 

“Yes,” he said after a moment.

 

“Next time, try the front desk,” Stark told him.  The Winter Soldier nodded curtly.

 

“We’re meeting in my room in thirty minutes,” Stark said.  “The one at the end of the hall on the right. It’s not optional.” The Winter Soldier nodded again. Stark looked at his gun then back to his face.  “What is that about?  Housekeeping not leave enough towels?”

Buck rose up.  The Winter Soldier let him.  “Ain’t there a saying about it?” he asked as he holstered his gun.  “It ain’t paranoid if people really are out to get you.”

 

“Fair point,” Tony said.  He held out an envelope.  “This is for you.”

 

Buck took it.  _JBB_ was neatly written in Steve’s handwriting on the envelope.  He looked back at Tony.

 

“He and Sam left for L.A. this morning at some ridiculously early hour,” Tony said. “He asked me to give you that before you make any decisions.”

 

“I can’t take his place,” he said.

 

Tony shrugged.  “See you in half an hour.”  He didn’t bother to replace the door after he left, so Buck did it before going to sit down on the untouched bed.  He looked at the envelope.  He didn’t know what Steve might have to say that would be harder to hear than what he’d already said, but he was afraid to find out. 

_Bucky?_ he asked hesitantly. He felt a wash of sadness, but beside that Bucky didn’t answer.  He was pretty damn holed up.

_Open it_ , the Winter Soldier said.  _Waiting changes nothing_.

_That’s the fucking point.  This—you think this is an apology or something?  It can’t be anything good.  Bucky’s had enough grief the past couple days.  He doesn’t need any more._

_Coward_.

_Fuck off._

_I’ll do it._

_Fuck you will_ , Buck replied.  _Give me a damn minute_. The Winter Soldier’s impatience rippled out to dissipate into Bucky’s never-ending sadness, stirring the surface but unable to truly move the depths.  _Bucky_?

 

Buck waited, but wave after wave of wordless grief was all that came. He took a deep breath and opened the letter.

 

***

_Thanks for giving me your doctor’s card.  I’m going to call her.  It’ll give me a head start, because she’ll already know a lot from you—about—well, about our history.  And she’s been through a deep background check, so…_

_I appreciate you thinking of it._

_And I owe you an apology.  I should have cleared the air between us a long time ago.  Maybe we’d have built a better relationship if I’d paid attention.  If I hadn’t expected you to be my friend in the first place.  At least I could have asked what you wanted from me instead of assuming I had a place in your life.  I’d like to try again when I come back.  If you’re going to work with the Avengers we’ll have to figure out a way to live with each other._

_I don’t mean it as an ultimatum.  I’m trying to learn from my mistakes, so I’m telling you what I want. I’m not leaving the Avengers. ~~These people have been~~. They mean a lot to me. I think there is a spot for you on the team, but only if the two of us can find a way to work together._

_I’m not sure I know what that looks like.  I suspect it’ll be slow.  It’s not easy for me to be around you. ~~I don’t~~.  But I respect you, and that’s a place to start._

_I don’t know if you want that, even.  But I can’t come back to the way things were when I left. So I’m willing to try if you are._

_One last thing:  I meant what I said.  It’s a responsibility and an honor and a burden, being Captain America.  I wouldn’t have asked you to take it on if I didn’t think you could do it.  I know you can.  Not because you were my best friend before, or because he was a hero—though regardless of what we are now, you were my best friend, and he was a hero.  Bravest, strongest, most caring guy I ever knew._

_You have a lot of the same qualities.  You’ve been through more pain than anybody I know, and you’ve come out the other side, and you’re building a life.  You have friends.  You protect people that need it when they face danger they can’t protect themselves from.  It’s hard work.  It’s dangerous and a lot of times it’s thankless.  And if you choose to take up the shield, it puts you in the front, where people are watching you; and they have expectations about the kind of man you are. It’s not always easy to live up to those expectations._

_And sometimes carrying the shield means you have to do what you know is right when everyone else wants something different from you._

_A lot of people forgot that while I was in the ice.  Maybe they never really understood it._

_I think you can do it, but I’m done expecting anything from you that you don’t want to give.  So all I’m doing is asking.  I’m not going to judge you if you choose not to.  Being an Avenger isn’t contingent on it.   I’ve asked Tony to make sure nobody pressures you about it, one way or another._

_S.R._

He sat with the letter in his hands until he realized he was late for the Avengers’ meeting. He didn’t know what he was feeling, only that the waves of it buffeted him back and forth and threatened to pull him under, too.

***

 

Tony’s “room” wasn’t as big as Steve’s, which had been nearly the whole fucking floor, but it was still bigger than most apartments Buck had seen. Everybody else was already gathered around the large dining table, even Clint, whose hospital bed was rolled up to one side of the table.  Captain America’s shield lay in the middle of the table.

 

He approached the Avengers, but didn’t join their circle.

 

“I need to know where things stand with Hydra,” Tony was saying.  “How many were able to escape; were you able to track them; any intelligence you were able to gather.  We need to follow up on this attack, or we’ll end up in the same position:  with Hydra hidden right on our doorstep, but we won’t know where.”

 

“According to Maria, the Rikers Island side of the compound didn’t have any leaks,” Natasha said.  “But because of its high security, the prison didn’t have the most used access points either. Unfortunately, there were two exits on the LaGuardia side we didn’t know about.  We don’t know how many Hydra escaped through those. And there was a patrol outside the compound.  That’s who attacked Clint.  Whether we have a mole or triggered an alarm or it was a coincidence—that we don’t know.”

 

The Winter Soldier pushed up.  _Mission report._   Buck yielded, and he stepped into the space between Natasha and Banner.

 

“Approximately forty prisoners were evacuated from Hydra detention,” he said. “Questioning them may provide additional intelligence.  Interrogation of one of their scientists revealed that Brock Rumlow—codename Crossbones—survived the helicarrier crash into the Triskelion.”

 

“Should I know that name?” Stark asked.

 

“He led the Strike team,” Natasha said.  “Steve and I worked with them regularly.  Mid-level Hydra.  Was he at the compound during the strike?”

 

“Unknown,” the Winter Soldier said.  “He briefed Hydra higher ups in January.  The scientist was one of them.”

 

“What was the subject of the briefing?” Natasha asked.

 

“Me.”

 

“Is that why you lost it?” she pressed.  “Triplett and Hunter had some concerns about your stability.”

 

“I disagree with that assessment,” the Winter Soldier replied.  “They were uncomfortable with my methods. Shooting Barton was more of a threat to my stability than evacuating the detention center.”

 

Everyone in the room seemed to inhale at the same time.  Banner strode to look out the window and exhaled slowly.  Thor hefted his hammer. He shifted to keep both of them in his line of sight.

 

“Whoa—“ Tony said.  “You shot Clint?”

 

“Hang on,” Barton said.  “He had some justification.  I was attacking him.  My hearing aids were gone and I could barely see through the blizzard.  I was already down, and all I could tell was someone was coming toward me.  I assumed it was Hydra. He didn’t shoot until I’d taken a couple shots at him.”

 

“Three shots,” he said.  “Buck was worried I’d take a kill shot.” He paused.  “I don’t like it when people shoot at me.”

 

Barton laughed weakly.  It sounded like it hurt.

 

“Did you just try to make a joke, Bourne Identity?” Stark asked. “I don’t know if I’m proud or pissed off.”

 

“You saved his life,” Natasha told him.  _You’re lucky you did_ , he heard.

 

The Winter Soldier nodded.

 

“He cannot be trusted,” Thor said.  “Do not be as blind to it as our Captain, who allows the greatness of his heart to overrule his reason when it comes to this coward.”

 

_Oh, fuck you, asshole._ “Who the fuck asked you?” Buck said.

 

"Fun as a Winter Soldier-God of Thunder throwdown would be, that's not why we're here," Stark said.  "Let's get back to the point.” Thor continued to glare at him, and the Winter Soldier moved—not to push Buck back down, but to stand at his side. They’d never done that before. It was strange—like trying to share a pair of binoculars.  Not bad, but a little disorienting.

 

“What's our next step?” Tony persisted.  “Where do we think the Hydra who escaped will have gone?"

 

After a long moment of staring Thor down, Buck stepped back and the Winter Soldier turned to Stark.

 

"One of the boltholes in or near the city,” he said.  "But those aren't set up as permanent bases.  They’re small—only meant to be used by a handful of people for a short time—and none of them could be expanded.  If they want to stay in the area, they'll have to find a new base."

 

"Do you think they'll stay?" Stark asked.

 

"They may retreat temporarily, but they’ll be back,” the Winter Soldier said.  "New York is a strategically valuable location."

 

"Too bad," Stark said.  "New York is my town.  They can have Poughkeepsie.  Or New Jersey."

 

Winter Soldier nodded.   _Too fucking right_ , Buck added.   _New York is ours._

 

"We should still close down those boltholes," Natasha pointed out.  "As quickly as we can."

 

"Okay," Stark said.  “We’ll start there.  And since the element of surprise is gone, let's go ahead and throw a little Fear of Avengers into them.  Maximum damage.  Shock and awe, ectera.  Sorry you have to sit this one out, Legolas--you can watch on JARVIS cam and award style points.  Bruce, let's see where these hideouts are located before we bring in the Other Guy.  So we have Iron Man, Black Widow, Thor, Bourne Identity, and whatever other resources we can bring in.  The Other Guy, depending on how populated the area is.  We can hit them hard, even without Cap and Hawkeye."

 

"Bourne Identity?" Thor asked.

 

Tony nodded at James.  "Winter Soldier."

 

"I do not trust him the way one must trust a shield mate," Thor said.  "I fight by his side only because the Captain asked it of me."

 

"I'm right here, asshole," Buck said.  "They don't have manners on your rock?  Don't fucking talk about me like I ain't here."

 

Thor sneered at him.

 

“And Cap’ll be back in September,” Tony said.  “So the gang will all be here.  Let’s see if we can get him a birthday present, though.  I want those bolt holes shut down in the next two days, and I want any Hydra captured alive so we can pick their brains. Let’s see what we can learn.”

 

“It's a reactionary strategy,” Natasha said.

 

“Well, maybe we can be a little more proactive once we’ve won a round or two of hide and seek,” Tony said.  “But since we don’t know where to go from here, reaction’s all we’ve got.”

 

***

 

The Avengers fell silent.  Banner returned to the table, but he went to the other side of Stark and avoided looking at James.  His eyes were on the shield instead.  Everyone’s were.

 

“Hard to imagine him out there without it,” Clint said. Thor and Banner nodded. Natasha’s face was blank, and Stark’s nearly so.

 

“I cannot imagine a circumstance in which I would willingly lay down Mjolnir,” Thor said.  “Nor…” He looked at James, and Buck heard what he didn’t say.  … _give it to another to carry._   Fair enough.  Steve loved that shield.  Buck was having a hard time imagining it too, and he was the one Steve had asked to do it.

 

Even after he’d hurt him and pushed him away.  He’d blacked his eye just the day before. Only fucking Steve Rogers.

 

“Steve was right about trying to hide his absence,” Natasha said. “Hydra will notice that Captain America is gone.  He’d be safer if they didn’t, but…  He kept a low enough profile for nearly two months that I couldn’t find him. As long as he avoids any more nationally televised rescue attempts, he should be fine.”

 

“Thor should be a distraction,” Clint said.  “You have to admit you draw attention.”

 

“As it should be,” Thor said with a smile.

 

_He’s my mission_.

 

_Are you fucking kidding me?_

 

His neck felt tight as the Winter Soldier’s dissatisfaction roiled through him.  _He’s my mission._

His stomach cramped.  _I don’t deserve to carry that shield._

“Very well,” Thor said.  “If you need me before Sunday, you may contact me in London.” The other Avengers moved to say goodbye to him.  James didn’t. His eyes stayed on the shield.

 

_I’m not his fucking friend.  He said so himself._

_He’s my mission._

_Would you shut the fuck up about that? Do you know what happened the last time I picked up that damn shield?_   Buck felt the Winter Soldier acknowledge his fall from the train, then remembered catching the shield and throwing it back.

 

_That wasn’t the last time.  I’m strong enough.  I can use it._

_I don’t fucking deserve it._ Once again, the Winter Soldier acknowledged Buck’s words before countering his argument.

 

_He asked me to do it._

 

_No fucking way._

The Winter Soldier recalled those moments as the Helicarrier broke apart, hitting an unresisting Steve until he spoke the words that woke Bucky.

 

_“I’m with you until the end of the line.”_

 

Bucky stirred and moved towards the surface.

 

Startled, Buck realized that the room was quiet again, all attention on him.

 

He was holding the shield in his hands.

 

_There is no fucking way._

 

He couldn’t put it down.  His hands wouldn’t let go.

 

_He’s my mission._

_Forget your fucking mission._

**_He’s my friend_**.

 

Oh, God.  He felt cold and nauseous.

 

_Bucky?_

_Until the end of the line._

_My mission._

_My friend._

 

His hands tightened on the shield and he looked up at the Avengers. Tony and Banner looked surprised; Thor angry; Natasha blank.  Clint, though…Clint had a small smile on his face.

 

_Fuck no.  Remember what he said about expectations.  I’m not the kind of man who can carry this.  I’ll let him down._

  

_My mission._

_My friend._

 

Surprise shock fear resolve agreement.

 

**_My mission.  My friend._ **

 

_Fuck._ It wasn’t disagreement, though.  He gave up, and the tension fell away.  The fear and the knowledge that he wasn’t good enough for this stayed, but they couldn’t stand against both the Winter Soldier’s persistence and Bucky’s protectiveness.

 

_Steve—_   But that was Bucky’s limit.  He sank down again.

 

“He asked me to do it,” the Winter Soldier told the Avengers. “To carry his shield until he was ready to take it up again.”  His gaze dropped to the shield in his hands once more.  Damn it.  Buck wasn’t ready.  Hell if he could do this.

 

_My mission.  My friend.  ‘Till the end of the line._

 

Fuck. Looked like he was doing it anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I updated the [timeline](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/109433014948/timeline-for-as-a-cruel-mistress-woos) on tumblr, btw!


	46. Grand Canyon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All sorts of Grand Canyon posts on [tumblr](http://salviag.tumblr.com) today, y'all! The rafting trip Steve and Sam take in this chapter? The next time we have $15,000 and nothing to spend it on, I'm taking the whole family on this exact trip.
> 
> Yeah, _that's_ not happening any time soon. But the trip looks _amazing_...
> 
> And Bucky talking to Steve about going to the Grand Canyon one day? That's comic canon, and I blatantly stole it. Thanks, Marvel!
> 
> Now to spend an hour or two responding to comments...  
> (Thanks for keeping me going, y'all--for everything. *blows kisses*)

***

_April 20 th_

 

That evening, Steve, Tony, and Sam sat down together for a beer and a quiet goodbye.

 

“I had JARVIS do a little research, Cap,” Tony said.  “I know you took about an hour to plan this trip when you left New York, so you didn’t look into every place you wanted to go. Here’s the bad news: a lot of people go to the Grand Canyon.  You can’t pull up and find an empty hotel room waiting, and you can’t sign up for the rafting trip that leaves two days later.  Not if you’re regular people.  But that’s the good news: I’m not regular people.  I’m Tony Stark.  So I fixed your trip.  You still get to go to the Grand Canyon, but it’s going to be a little different than you were thinking.  For one thing, you’re going to be leaving out of Vegas, so that’s where you need to head from L.A.  You’ll have a night there on each side of the rafting trip.  You’re welcome.  But I can’t get all Las Vegas to sign nondisclosure agreements, so try not to get your picture taken doing anything you don’t want all America to see while you’re there.”

 

“It’s Vegas, not Sodom and Gomorrah,” Sam said.  “We can’t get into _that_ much trouble.”

 

“It astounds me that you can know this man and say that with a straight face,” Tony said.  “If there’s trouble to get into, he’s going to get into it.”

 

“Not the kind of trouble you mean,” Sam said.  “Relax.”

 

“What did you do?” Steve asked.  He was already dreading the answer.

 

“Nothing bad.  I called the company that runs the rafting trip and made it worth their while to make a little room on their next trip.”

 

“They better not have had to kick anybody off,” Steve said.  “I’m not going to do that.”

 

“Not a problem,” Tony replied.  “Their policy is fourteen passengers to each seventeen passenger capacity raft. So a couple of the rafts will have fifteen passengers instead.  They’re barely going to notice.”

 

“They’re going to be too busy being in awe of Captain America,” Sam said. Steve grimaced. “You didn’t think you were going to hide it from these people, did you?  We’re spending eight days in close quarters.  Somebody’s figuring it out.”

 

“Yeah,” Steve said.  “It’s been nice, though.  Just being Steve Rogers for a bit.”  He paused. “Is there anything else we should know about this trip?”

 

“How do you feel about photography?” Tony asked.  “Because it’s a photography special interest trip. That’s all that was available.”

 

“I like photography, but I didn’t bring a camera,” Sam said.  “Never took a class or anything.”

 

“The only camera I have is the one on my phone,” Steve said.  “I usually sketch instead of taking a picture.”

 

“That’s what I thought,” Tony said.  “I bought you cameras, and you can pick them up at the hotel in Las Vegas.”

 

Steve shook his head.  “If you’re not careful, you’re going to lose that self-centered reputation.  Thanks, Tony.  It means a lot.  All of it.”

 

“Forget it,” Tony said.  “Let Sam take some pictures of you falling into the Colorado River and we’ll call it even.”

 

“I think it’s pretty hard to fall out of these rafts,” Steve told him.

 

“If there’s a way, you’ll find it,” he said.

 

 

***

_April 23 rd_

 

Steve wasn’t going to turn Tony’s gift down.  He thought it would be likely to hurt Tony’s feelings if he did. Even so, he felt guilty about letting him talk Grand Canyon Expeditions into taking Sam and Steve on their next rafting trip.  Tony, being Tony, had insisted that all GCEX staff and their fellow guests on the trip sign nondisclosure agreements.  The staff had tried to keep it from him, but he’d overheard enough whispered conversations to know there’d been protests.

 

It was sad how Tony had become such an expert in nondisclosure agreements. Maybe he’d been pretty wild some years back, but he hadn’t deserved to have every stupid decision plastered all over newsstands.  But that experience had protected Steve on this trip.  He hadn’t thought too much about coming out publicly; he needed to wrap his own mind around the idea first.  But he’d like to do it when he was ready, not when some guy sold his story to the media or posted a picture to his Instagram.

 

Tony had JARVIS watching the web closely.  Steve was pretty sure he had some sort of plan to crash the internet if anything about Steve went up before he was ready for it. There hadn’t been a whiff of the party he threw for Steve at The Office, though. Jeff had kept quiet, too—and that could have been really embarrassing, just about the worst way to be outed Steve could imagine.  Whatever Tony’d done had worked.  Steve just wished he hadn’t had to learn it the hard way.

 

He regretted letting it color his first impression of Tony.  He was glad they’d had a second chance at friendship.

 

Everyone had kept to themselves on the flight from Las Vegas.  It was a commercial flight, and there were plenty of passengers who weren’t on this rafting trip.  The charter bus was only the forty or so people signed up for the trip, but it was pretty quiet too.  Sam was slumped over, sleeping on Steve’s shoulder. He wasn’t sure when Sam had gotten to bed the night before.  A lot later than Steve, that was for sure.  There was only so much blackjack Steve could take, but Sam had been going strong at midnight when Steve left the casino.

 

People talked to their companions, mostly.  Some were immersed in the desert landscape out the window. A pair of teens were buried in their phones—probably taking advantage of the last cell service they’d have for the next eight days.  Which reminded him…

 

He took out his own phone.

_Hey_

 

Hansen responded about ten minutes later.

**_Hey yourself_ **

**_Thought your trip started today_ **

_We’re on the bus from the airport.  About half an hour yet._

**_Anyone recognize you?_ **

_No. I shaved, though, so Sam says it’s just a matter of time._

**_Shame_ **

**_I kinda like you scruffy_ **

_I’ll be plenty scruffy in a week.  I think we might have to wash off with a bar of soap and a gallon bucket of river water._

_Then one more week until Minneapolis._

**_I’m counting the days_ **

_Yeah?_

**_Yeah_ **

**_Thinking about you a lot_ **

_Me too._

****

**_What you been thinking, baby?_ **

**_Tell me about it_ **

_Pretty sure I’m the older one._

_Also I’m not sexting with Sam sitting right next to me._

****

**_Technicalities_ **

**_But it would be sexting, huh_ **

_I plead the Fifth._

_Probably gonna lose service soon.  Better go._

****

**_Hang on—do you know why Stark Enterprises wants a meeting with my firm? We’re small change compared to the kind of architect that usually gets those commissions_ **

_That son of a gun.  Probably exactly what you’re thinking._

****

**_They’ll never find my body?_ **

_Yeah. Fyi:  she looks sweet, but Pepper’s the dangerous one._

****

**_More dangerous than Iron Man aka the Merchant of Death_ **

**_Riiiiight_ **

_Don’t tell anyone, but Tony’s a softie._

****

**_To you, maybe_ **

**_He hired a detective to tail me_ **

**_And I think he hacked my financials_ **

_I’d like to be able to tell you he wouldn’t do that, but…_

_If you don’t have anything to hide, you’ll be fine._

****

**_Nothing big_ **

**_Few bodies in the basement_ **

**_No more than ten, maybe fifteen_ **

_As long as it’s under a baker’s dozen.  Better move a couple._

****

**_Ha ha ha_ **

**_Counting the days, Brooklyn_ **

_Yeah. See you soon._

 

Steve powered his phone down and took a deep breath.  He was a little keyed up and a little turned on from some pretty innocuous flirting.  He was looking forward to seeing Hansen again.

 

He was looking forward to it a lot.

 

But this rafting trip—some time with a great friend, seeing a place he’d wanted to go for years—he was pretty excited about it, too.

 

He’d always thought if he made it there—which hadn’t been guaranteed, with his health—he’d go with Bucky.  They’d had a plan since they were boys:  take a train west; see buffalo and coyotes and cowboys and Indians—Native Americans—and end up at the Grand Canyon.  They were going to paddle all the way from the top of the canyon to the Gulf of Mexico.

 

Steve was pretty sure you couldn’t do that.  Not anymore.  He and Bucky hadn’t bothered too much with the actual possibilities, though. They were two boys dreaming. Bucky used to talk about spaceships and flying to Mars, too—compared to that, their trip to the Grand Canyon was the practical plan.

 

When they arrived, their guides had them disembark and gather in a loose group next to the landing for a quick refresher on river safety while their things were stowed in the rafts.

While they waited, an older gentleman—sixty-five, maybe?—turned to him and offered his hand.

 

“Looks like we’re going to be getting to know each other pretty well,” he’d said. “I’m Steve Clark; and this is my wife, Carol.  The grandkids are with us, too; but they’re too cool to hang out with Gramps and Nana.” He gestured to the teens standing on the far side of the group—the two that had been deep in their phones on the bus ride.

 

Steve took his hand.  “Steve Rogers,” he said.  “And my friend, Sam Wilson.”  He waved Sam over and turned back to see Steve Clark staring at him, stunned. His wife was gripping his arm and beaming at both of them.

 

Steve plastered on the War Bonds smile and plowed on. “Have you done this before?” he asked.  “It’s my first time to the Grand Canyon.  Sam’s, too.  I’m looking forward to this.”

 

“My father served in World War II,” Steve Clark said.  “I was named after you.  It’s an honor, sir.”

 

Steve ducked his head.  Sam laughed.

 

“Yeah, you wait,” he said.  “I bet your dad thought he was naming you after some kind of role model instead of the biggest s.o.b. to ever come out of Brooklyn.”

 

“We just met these people,” Steve complained.  “Do I insult you five seconds after introducing you to someone?”

 

“It’s not an insult if it’s the truth,” Sam said.  He turned back to the Clarks, who seemed taken aback. “Don’t let me burst your bubble or anything.  He’s a genuine hero and all that.  Try to remember that when the rest of us are sweating and panting hiking up some side canyon and he laps us ten or fifteen times without even breathing hard.”

 

Steve smiled wryly at Sam.  “You’re making me look bad.”

The Clarks had relaxed a bit.  Some of the neighboring people had been eavesdropping, because there were some smiles and giggles to go with the sideward glances.

 

How about that.  Sam—Sam was the best.

 

In two minutes, he’d let everybody know they were rafting down the Colorado River with that brat from Brooklyn, Steve Rogers, not Captain America; and that’s how they should treat him.  It would make the trip a lot more comfortable for everybody—especially Steve.

 

“I’ve got three words for you,” Sam told him.  “‘On your left.’”

 

Steve bit back his laugh.  Mostly.

 

“Keep in mind if you’re paddling fifty times faster than everybody else, your raft is gonna be going in circles,” Sam added.  Steve couldn’t stop himself anymore.  He let go and laughed out loud.

 

And it worked.  Some hours later, when they’d pulled off the river to set up their camp for the night, almost everyone came by to say a word or two to Steve; and they usually started by thanking him for something—his war service, or the Battle of New York—but they went on to talk to him like any other guy.  Everyone knew his story, and some of the conversation was influenced by that; but it was still regular conversation, not the stilted, formal attempts common when Steve met someone.  No one asked him about politics, or the Avengers, or even what it had been like growing up during the Great Depression.

 

He and Steve Clark even had a spirited conversation about the Dodgers. Turned out Steve and Carol were originally from Santa Barbara, and Steve Clark was a long time Dodgers fan.

 

“I can’t believe it,” he said, shaking his head.  Steve didn’t know him well enough to tell if the dismay in his voice was real or put on, but he sounded like he’d just learned Steve ate babies for breakfast.  “What’s your team, then?  Mets? Please tell me it’s not the Yankees.”

 

Steve shook his head.  “Cubs.”

 

“The Cubs?” he exclaimed.  “Steve Rogers, a Cubs fan.  How did that happen?”

 

“It’s pretty new,” Steve said.  “I was in Chicago in March and I caught some games.  I liked what I saw.”

 

Steve Clark shook his head.  “They don’t have a chance at the pennant this year,” he said.  “Too young.  They don’t have the hitters for it.”

 

“I don’t mind,” Steve said.  “The Dodgers weren’t contenders for most of my lifetime.  ’41 was a good year.  And they did well during the war years, but it got tough to follow the game after ’43, when I was overseas.”  He shook his head with an exaggerated sigh.  “The next thing I heard about them, they’d moved to Los Angeles.  There are some things a man can’t forgive.”

 

Sam laughed.  After a moment, Steve Clark joined in, along with a few other folks.  Their conversation had attracted a bit of an audience.

 

“What about you, Sam?” Steve Clark asked.  “You follow the game?”

 

Sam shrugged.  “Some. I’m more of a football and basketball fan.  When I do watch baseball, I’m a Yankees fan.”

 

Both Steves groaned.

 

“Not the Nats?” Steve suggested.

 

“I grew up in Harlem.  Didn’t move to DC until after I got out of the Air Force.  Gotta stick with the home team, man.”

 

That night, Steve and Sam lay on their bedrolls, looking up at the sliver of night sky visible at the top of the canyon.  There was some stirring from the others in the group, but mostly it was quiet and dark and cold.  It felt like they were the only two people in the world.

 

“Thanks,” he said.  “For coming with me.”

 

“I’m glad I got to do this,” Sam said.  “It’s one of those things that’s on your list, but it keeps getting pushed off for other things, you know?  But here I am, at the Grand Canyon—with Captain America, too.  I should get double points for that.”

 

“It’s pretty amazing,” Steve said.  “I could see the stars better in the Badlands.  That was—I don’t have the words for that.  This sky is nice, but it doesn’t touch that one. But the Canyon itself—yeah. It’s worth the trip.” He paused, but then he kept going. He wasn’t going to pretend his best friend had never existed.  “I’m glad you’re here too.  Bucky and I used to talk about going to see the Grand Canyon.  It’d be hard to be here on my own.  But I wouldn’t want to miss it, either.”

 

“Any time,” Sam said.  “You just say the word; I’m there.”

 

Steve smiled at the night sky.

 

“You know before we started searching for the Winter Soldier, when you said ‘when do we start?’” he asked.

 

“Yeah,” Sam replied.

 

“I could have fallen in love with you right then, but I didn’t know it,” he said. “It was—being with you is knowing somebody’s always got my back.  Always.  No matter what.”

 

“You _were_ flirting, that first time we met,” Sam said.  “I knew it.”

 

“I didn’t,” he laughed.  “But yeah, probably.  What would you have done?”

 

“I was set to let you down gently when I realized I was getting lapped by Captain America,” Sam said. “I was considering making an exception, but then it seemed like I’d got my signals wrong.  You weren’t flirting after all.  And then things got interesting.”

 

“Considering an exception, huh?” Steve teased.  “I’m flattered.”

 

“You should be,” Sam said.  “I mean, I look at Thor, and I can see what all the fuss is about; but he’s not getting an exception.  Don’t need to think about that one at all.  I spent a good half-hour deciding whether or not to make one for you.”

 

Steve laughed out loud.  “I’m going to remember that the next time Thor’s trashing me in the gym. I would get a Sam Wilson Exception but he doesn’t.”

 

“I said I was considering it,” Sam said.  “I never made up my mind.”

 

“That’s okay,” Steve said.  “As long as it’s more than Thor gets, I’m happy.”

 

***

 

The rest of the trip was much the same.  They paddled a little further down the Colorado each morning. The whitewater was fun; but Steve preferred the quiet stretches, when he had time to appreciate the beauty of the canyon—the way the sandstone shifted from pink to orange depending on the light; the contrast with the green of spring’s sparse growth, along the banks and where there were springs in the cliffs, clinging to the canyon walls.

 

And the light—the light was perfect for most of the day, bright but softened by the canyon walls, that early in the morning sort of light, nearly the whole day long.  Steve itched to try to capture it.  He sketched, but graphite wasn’t the right medium for it.  So he took photographs along with everybody else, hoping that he’d catch enough to paint it later. 

 

He drew a lot of pictures of Bucky.  He was having a great time with Sam and meeting some new people, but his friend was on his mind a lot.  He’d been going to take this trip with Bucky.  He didn’t think about it all the time, but he couldn’t forget it. Their last afternoon, after they pulled off the river, Sam sat next to him as Steve drew a younger Bucky climbing the canyon walls, bright-eyed and enthusiastic, the way he would have been if he and Steve had hopped a train out West when they were twelve.

 

“Are you gonna be in this picture, too?” Sam asked.

 

“I don’t know,” Steve replied.  “I’d have to be sitting on the river bank, watching Bucky climb. I couldn’t have done it at that age. Not before the serum.” He paused.  “I wanted to—honor, I guess—the happiest part of that time, and the way I had to sit out so much…  That’s a more melancholy memory.”

 

“It’s still something to remember,” Sam said.  “You know, it takes two to make a friendship.  The way you talk about him sometimes, it’s like he picked you at random and decided you’d be friends and that was that. You had nothing to do with it.”

 

“Sometimes it felt that way,” he said.  “Being my friend meant Bucky gave up a lot of sandlot baseball games and running around.  He never seemed to mind, but I didn’t exactly know why.  If our places had been switched—if I had been the healthy one—I don’t know if I would have done the same.”

 

“You would’ve,” Sam said.

 

Steve shrugged and closed his sketchpad.  “Maybe, especially if we were already friends.  But a lot of who I am—Doctor Erskine said it came out of being a weak man, so I knew compassion.  If I hadn’t been weak, who knows what I would have been?”

 

“You were sick, sure,” Sam said.  “I don’t think you’ve ever been weak where it matters.”

 

“You see what he meant, though?” Steve asked.  “I just wonder, sometimes.”

 

Sam nodded.  Steve set his sketchpad down and ran a hand over the stubble on his face.

 

“You want to go for a swim?” he asked.  “Last chance.”

 

“Sure,” Sam said.  “Seeing everybody try not to stare at you in that bathing suit is always entertaining.”

 

“Blame Tony,” Steve said.  “He bought it.  You’d think they’d get used to it, though.”

 

“There is no getting used to that suit,” Sam said.

 

Steve laughed and stood before giving Sam a hand up.

 

“Last one in’s a rotten egg?”

 

“Forget it,” Sam said.  “I learned my lesson the first time we met.”  Then he ran to his bag, so Steve knew it was a race after all. He sprinted to catch up.

 

There was a close moment, when Sam stole his bathing suit and nearly threw it in the river before Steve grabbed it.  They were laughing so hard as they changed out of their clothes they both had to wait until they calmed enough to continue. Sam did win, but only because the Clark grandkids decided to get involved, grabbing Steve around the waist to slow him down enough for Sam to take the lead. Steve got him back by cannonballing him, followed by a good dunking.

 

“Who knew Captain America was such a sore loser?” Sam laughed when he surfaced.

 

“Nah,” Steve said.  He pushed out to deeper water and leaned back to float.  “That’s that s.o.b. from Brooklyn again.”

 

***

 

It was a perfect last day.  They swam and had a splash war with the Clark’s grandkids and dinner was steak grilled right there on the shore.  And about an hour after sunset, when he and Sam were watching the starry skies, a streak of light came out of nowhere.

 

“Is that a comet?” Sam asked.

 

“No, that’s an Iron Man,” Steve said.

 

“Must have been jealous of all the male bonding we were doing without him,” Sam said.

 

A minute later, Tony landed.  The ground shuddered on impact, but neither Sam nor Steve moved or looked away from the stars.

 

“Did you miss me?” Tony asked.  “Before you answer:  I brought the stuff for s’mores.” Sam sat up.

 

“Hell yeah,” he said.

 

“Never had one,” Steve said.

 

“It’s like fluffernutter but with chocolate instead of peanut butter,” Sam told him. “Sooo good.”

 

“They’d been invented,” Steve said dryly, pushing up on his elbows. “City boy?”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam said.  “Pass the graham crackers.”  He pointed at Tony.  “You start the fire.”

 

Tony whistled.  “Put a marshmallow in front of him and the man gets bossy,” he said.

 

“You don’t know the half of it,” Sam said.  “Snap snap with that campfire.”

 

Tony grumbled, but he wandered over to the GCEX staff to ask if they had some wood.

 

Steve grinned at Sam, who grinned back at him.

 

Yeah. Perfect day.


	47. Gonna Need a Uniform

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm about to fall asleep, but the chapter's ready at last! I don't know why this one was so hard, but it was. It felt like I had to pull each word out one at a time.
> 
> Thank you all for your comments and kudos and everything, by the way! They mean a lot to me, and even if I haven't replied, I've read each one. Last week I had a child home sick for three days straight, and this week I had another one home--but he's going to school tomorrow and next week's chapter is written and waiting for editing! So I should have time to respond to those at last.
> 
> *knocks wood*

***

 

_April 21 st_

 

The only good thing about the flight back to New York was that Thor wasn’t on it. He’d made it clear he didn’t like Buck; well, he didn’t like that fucker, either.  None of him did—not even Bucky.

 

Clint had been the only one who was at all sympathetic since he’d punched Steve, and he was sleeping.  Everyone else ignored him.  He should probably be grateful that’s all they did.  The Avengers didn’t have anything kind to say to him.

 

He might have tried to explain to Natasha, but she was sitting with Clint; and her stiff back was sending a clear “don’t fuck with me right now” message. What was he going to say, anyway?

_She’s our friend.  She’ll listen._

_Maybe. She’s Steve’s friend first._

_Hitting him was a mistake._

_Thanks for the fucking news flash._

_Your judgment is impaired._

_Would you fuck off already?_

 

The Winter Soldier retreated.  Bucky hadn’t come out since he’d pushed to pick up the shield, but his sorrow was affecting all of them.  Even Buck just wanted to close his eyes and sink into the murk so he didn’t have to face what he’d done.

 

Ah, fuck it.  He put his back to the wall and closed his eyes.  Eventually pretense became uneasy sleep.

 

He was groggy with sleep when they landed at JFK, but woke all the way on the ride back to Stark Towers.  Natasha had gone with Clint in a SUV adapted for medical transportation, so it was just Tony, Bruce, and him in the limousine.

 

It was a damn quiet forty minutes.

 

He wasn’t sure what to say.  He didn’t owe either of them an apology.  Steve was the one he’d hurt, and he’d made that apology—though it hadn’t turned out the way he’d expected.

 

There was one thing, he guessed.

 

“Sorry I broke the hotel room door,” he told Tony.  “Whatever it cost, I’ll pay you back.”

 

Tony waved him off.

 

“Forget it,” he said.  “When I sent for the suit it went through the window in my suite.  The earthquake took care of some other windows. A couple hinges aren’t a big deal.”

 

“I’m living on your dime already,” he insisted.  “Let me pay for it.”

 

“Take it up with Pepper,” Tony said.  “All I do is hand over my card.  Pepper and her financial people take care of the rest.”

 

He pursed his lips and looked out the window.  See if he wouldn’t.  His life was so fucking tangled up with these people, and he was more aware than ever that they’d done it for Steve, not him.  He’d fucked up but good and hell if he knew how to fix it. Not with Bucky, and not with the Avengers.  He sank back.

 

The Winter Soldier observed Banner reflected in the glass.  Banner was looking out the opposite window, his face tight.  Simply being in this small a space with him was difficult for Banner now.

 

That wasn’t good.  An upset Banner was in no one’s interests.  He remained quiet, his gaze directed out the window, for the remainder of the drive to the Tower; and once the car was parked he got out quickly and took the stairs to the gym floor.  He would stay away.

 

When he arrived at the gym he hesitated.  He’d been thinking about getting out of Banner’s sight; and not only was the gym floor close, Banner never used it.  But he had enough irregularity in his life. He preferred to keep to his routine whenever possible, and he trained in the mornings, with an occasional spar in the afternoon or evening.  Ten thirty at night wasn’t ideal.

 

He was here, though, and coming off a mission.  Adding another training session at the end of that wouldn’t disrupt his routine too much.  He moved to hang the captain’s shield where Rogers did when he was down here; but as he lifted it into place, he stopped short. 

 

If he were to imitate Rogers well enough to deceive others, he would have to do more than trade in his tactical gear for Captain America’s uniform. He would have to forgo his usual weaponry for this shield.

 

The thought was terrifying.

_Scared to give up your guns?_

_Yes. After our attack on LaGuardia-Rikers, Hydra will target me even more than before._

_Pretty sure that ain’t fucking possible._

_I won’t go back.  I won’t let them take me.  I’m too vulnerable unarmed._

_Don’t look at me.  Picking up that shield wasn’t my fucking idea._

_You agreed.  Will you yield to me whenever the Avengers assemble?_

 

Buck’s rejection of that suggestion stung like being wrapped in a sea nettle’s tentacles.

_We don’t have to be Captain America all the damn day.  Just when the Avengers need us._

 

True. But no guns, no knives, nothing but the shield…

 

He was strong enough to use it; but he was not competent with it, either as a weapon or defense.  Rogers used it as automatically as if it were an arm.

_He didn’t used to be that good with it._

 

Buck had only fragmented memories of Rogers throwing the shield during the war, but he shared them with the Winter Soldier.  Rogers’ aim had always been good, but the ability to ricochet his shield off several targets, to use it strategically—Buck didn’t remember those being as strong as they were now.

 

He had parts of what he needed:  the aim and the tactical training.  He needed to practice using the shield.  He didn’t know how long it would take to become as competent as Rogers, but he would gain that skill as quickly as he could.

 

And even in a uniform as fitted as Captain America’s, there had to be room for a few knives.

_I wouldn’t say no to a gun_.

 

That would be harder to hide, but it was a possibility.  Maybe in a boot?  He’d speak to Stark about it.

 

And in the meantime, he would practice.  Maybe one of the larger rooms used for sparring or obstacle training could be adapted for his purpose.

_Who the hell knows?  Might already be one set up_.

 

Buck was right.  He’d avoided Rogers so successfully that they didn’t know his routine.  His stomach cramped with waves of Bucky’s misery at that thought.

 

Even if Bucky heard him, he wasn’t capable of comfort.  He left Buck to try while he set off to find a room. Bucky’s pain hurt, but he’d had worse.  If he could defeat a trained opponent hand to hand with a broken leg and swim with a dislocated shoulder, he could work through this.

 

Nothing compared to being wiped.

 

***

 

Two hours later, he quit.

_We don’t suck_.

_We’re not good_.  The Winter Soldier started up the stairs. _We’re barely acceptable._

_Did you think you were going to be as good as Captain America after a couple hours?  You are such a fucking arrogant son of a bitch.  I said I’d do this because Bucky wanted it, not because I thought we were gonna be able to live up to Steve’s standard._

_I can do this._

 

His serum might not be a match for Rogers’, but the Winter Soldier had been Hydra’s fist for sixty years.  Rogers was the only person who’d ever come close to beating him, and they’d never finished a fight.  He wouldn’t know who was better until he was ready.  But he was confident enough.  Buck’s laughter washed through him, warm and green but with a dark, stinging edge of disdain; followed by a rush of pride and jealousy.

_You tell yourself that, fucker.  Nothin’ and nobody could keep Steve Rogers down when he was so skinny and weak a ten year old kid coulda beat him up.  Beating him’s not the damn point, anyway. We’re not fighting Steve. We just have to get good enough to fool people._

_And you can stop thinking about your fucking mission right fucking now._

_The safety agreement has expired._

_You wanna race for it?  Steve is in L.A.  I’d say odds are I can take you down way before you could find him._

_For now this mission takes precedence._

_Fucking two-faced murderous bastard.  We ain’t leavin’ Doc’s tomorrow without a safety agreement._

_It’s pointless._

_I ain’t arguing, I’m telling you._

_You can’t maintain control indefinitely._

_Can’t I?  Kept you down a long time before I gave you a shot.  I can fucking do it again._

_You’re not as strong anymore._

_Try me, asshole._

 

He was too tired for this.  He withdrew. They’d see what happened tomorrow.

 

He had passed his floor on the way to Barton’s apartment when he realized: JARVIS had rebooted. Unless someone had thought to reinstate the AI’s directive to forbid him entry…

_The past two days have been so fucking crazy._

_I suspect no one did._

 

He went back down, exited the stairwell on his floor, and tried the door. Locked.

_Sure. But we don’t need a key._

 

“JARVIS, you there?” Buck said.

 

“Of course, sir,” JARVIS replied.

 

“This is my floor, but I don’t have my key on me,” he said.  “Would you mind?”

 

“Confirming identity…You may enter, sir.”

_Hot damn_. “Thanks, pal,” Buck said. He walked through the door and into his own place for the first time in more than a month.  _Thank fuck_.  The Winter Soldier hummed silent agreement.  Even Buck seemed to settle some.

 

“My designation is JARVIS, sir,” JARVIS said.

 

“Yeah, okay,” Buck said.

 

He locked the door behind him without flipping the lights on so reflected light from the city outside was the only illumination.  Even in that dim light he could see the windows and speakers he’d shot out had been replaced.  It was like his temper tantrum had never happened.

 

He didn’t have a better place for the shield, so he leaned it against the wall before crossing the open space to his bedroom.  Tony and Clint both had nice places, but…Tony was noisy and his place was too bright and too sharp.  The terra cotta walls of Clint’s guest bedroom had been too much in their own way—too much color.  Too much to look at.  Plus the layout of Clint’s place had terrible sight lines.  He didn’t know how an archer could stand it.

 

The first time he’d seen his place…

 

When he’d walked into his new apartment for the first time, he’d been taken aback by how bare it was—so bare he wondered if Pepper was only half done with the decorating.  He’d planned to add some things, liven it up a bit.  But he never got around to it, and after a while he didn’t want to. _Damn, this place is gray_ had faded the longer he was there.  Yeah, there was a lot of gray; but it wasn’t all gray, and it wasn’t all one shade of gray.  The brick wall separating his bedroom from the living room was charcoal, and he didn’t know what the lighter gray of the sofa and the rest of the walls was, but he liked how quiet it was.

 

And he’d never had such a terrific bed in all his life.  Maybe he hadn’t had high standards before he moved into Avengers’ Tower; but he’d slept at Clint’s and Tony’s too, and neither of those beds were as great as his.  It had surprised him when a plain mattress on a piece of wood had turned out to be so comfortable—firm enough without being too firm; and with the softest sheets—he didn’t know they made sheets that fucking soft—and blankets that were warm and light and cozy and half a dozen fluffy pillows.  It was damn near perfect.

 

The bedroom walls weren’t gray like the rest of the place, either; they were this crazy color that sometimes seemed green and sometimes seemed blue, like it couldn’t decide which one it was.  He could spend an hour lying in his bed in the morning watching the walls change color as the light changed.  It had become his favorite time of day.

 

He had no idea what that damn color was called; but after a week, it was Buck’s favorite.  It was the most soothing color he’d ever seen.  The bedroom had more furniture, too, and more on the walls, so it wasn’t as bare as the rest of the place.

 

The rest of the apartment had grown on him, but he’d liked the bedroom right away. One night in that bed and he’d fallen in love.  Bucky hadn’t been out much, but the Winter Soldier liked it too.  Buck half thought it was why he’d had such an easy time keeping him down for as long as he had, because that poor bastard’s idea of comfortable was “only hurting some.”  Feeling good sent him into a daze.

 

Pepper Potts was a damn angel, and one of Stark’s few good points was that he knew how lucky he was.  She could have looked like hell and treated him the way an asshole like him deserved, and Buck would have loved her just for giving him such a great place to live.

 

He’d been lying on his bed for a while, too content and worn out to muster the will to get up so he could clean up and go to sleep, when JARVIS interrupted him.

 

“Pardon me, sir.  Mister Stark requests that you join him in his workshop.”

 

Buck turned on the light and looked at the clock.

 

“It’s fucking three o’clock in the fucking morning,” he said. “What the fuck does he want?”

 

“Mister Stark did not inform me, sir, only directed me to pass on his invitation should you be awake,” JARVIS said.

 

“I was comfortable,” he complained.  “What the fuck can’t wait until a decent damn hour?”

 

“Mister Stark did not confide in me,” JARVIS said.  “I can only relay his request.  Shall I inform him that you decline to join him?”

_We shouldn’t antagonize him further._

 

Buck groaned and sat up.  “Tell him I’ll be there in ten minutes.”  Fucking Stark.  With a sigh he went to check the kitchen to see if he had any food that hadn’t turned green and fuzzy while he was banned from his own damn home.  No one had woke him for dinner on the plane. If he was up, he might as well eat.

 

The inside of the refrigerator was only half as scary as he expected, but he decided beef jerky was a safer bet.  He grabbed the package and set off for Stark’s playroom.

 

Tony was frowning when Buck entered his workshop as he moved something around on his computer’s holographic display.  Buck couldn’t see what it was, so he stepped closer.

 

It was a 3-D representation of a man’s figure.  The Winter Soldier tensed.  Most of the reason he came down here when Tony wanted him for something was because Tony’s lab was too much like every other laboratory in the Winter Soldier’s experience, and every damn one of them had been a torture chamber.  Seeing Stark look at a figure like it was the subject of an experiment put the Soldier on edge.

 

“What do you want?” he asked.  “Don’t you sleep?”

 

“Sleep is for the weak,” Tony said.  He gestured Buck closer.  “C’mere and look at this.”

 

Buck sighed and approached Tony through the Winter Soldier’s thick as molasses resistance.  He looked at the slowly turning figure.  _Oh_.

 

He looked back to meet Tony’s serious gaze.

 

“Captain America needs a uniform,” he said.  “What do you think?”

 

He looked back at the figure.

 

“I think I want to carry a gun,” he said.  “Maybe some knives and a couple of grenades.”

 

“You don’t ask for much, do you?” Stark asked.  “This is not a uniform with a lot of room for hiding weapons. You might want to add a few thousand squats to your fitness routine to get that ass in Cap-perfect condition.”

 

“Fuck you,” Buck said.  “It ain’t like the Winter Soldier’s tac gear is loose.  And my ass is fine.”

 

“Uh huh,” Tony said.  “Just wait.” He paused.  “How big a gun were you thinking?”

 

His two favorites were too big.  They’d be impossible to disguise.

 

“Ruger SR9,” he answered.  “Seven and a half inch length, five and a half inch height, one and a half inch width.”

 

Tony grimaced.  “Smaller would be better.”

 

“The SR9c is six point eight five inches long,” Buck said.  “Or a Kel-Tec PF-9 is five point eight five inches long and four point three inches high.”

 

Tony zoomed in on the utility pockets on the uniform’s thighs.

 

“I can definitely work with that last one,” he said.  “I’ll see about that second one you mentioned. JARVIS, did you get those?”

 

“Yes, sir,” JARVIS said. 

 

There was a pause before Tony spoke again.

 

“Could you throw up the specs?” he asked.  “Any day now.”

 

“Of course, sir.”  The AI sounded chagrinned.  “Right away.”

 

Buck watched as the manufacturer’s specifications for the two guns appeared next to the uniform mock up.

 

 _Knives_.

 

“Hey, JARVIS, could you put up some knives, too?” he asked.  “A Gerber Mark II.  And a Mark I—that would work as a boot knife.  How about a Boker Kalashnikov and a SOG Seal Pup Elite, too.”

 

“Now you’re getting obnoxious,” Tony said.  “JARVIS, get his measurements.  Faux Cap, go away for twenty-four hours.  You can come back then for a fitting.”

 

“I plan to be asleep at three forty-five tomorrow morning,” Buck said. “It can wait until tomorrow afternoon.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony waved him away.

 

It was probably a safe bet that Banner was asleep, so Buck risked the elevator again.  He went to the bathroom and started to get undressed for a quick shower when he caught a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror.  He paused, then turned so he could look over his shoulder into the mirror.

 

“Fuck you, Tony Stark,” he said aloud.  “Steve Rogers should wish his ass was this good.” Waves of dark green amusement flowed from the Winter Soldier.  _And fuck you too._

_We’ve taken the stairs to avoid Banner.  Now we have a second reason._

 

_Fuck my life.  This building has nearly a hundred fucking stories, and we live on the ninetieth one.  And stop thinking about how great Steve’s ass is; that’s sick.  You want to think about somebody’s ass, think about Natasha’s._

_You don’t make sense._

_Fuck off._

 

He turned again to face the mirror.  He wasn’t bad looking, was he?  Ladies liked Bucky for his face as much as his charm. Where his arm met his chest was a mess of scars, but he could cover those with clothes—and he could make sure his clothes stayed on until the lights were off.  He just needed something to disguise the arm. There was no hiding the feel of metal.

 

And he hated his hair like this.

 

_Could we please cut our damn hair?_

 

_I don’t trust anyone to do it.  Why didn’t you accept Skye’s offer?_

_I don’t want to talk about it.  Natasha?_

_She’s too dangerous._

_She wouldn’t hurt us._

_I couldn’t let her that close with scissors. Our hair’s fine._

_We look like a vagrant.  Nobody wants a date who looks like he can’t afford a haircut._

 

The Winter Soldier shrugged, stripped off the rest of his clothes, and stepped into the shower.

 

_It can’t be that important.  If it mattered that much to you, you would have said yes to Skye. She didn’t care._

 

He couldn’t explain why he’d turned Skye down.  Everything he’d told her was true, but none of it was why.  He was pathetic. Skye was funny, sweet, pretty; and he hadn’t had to do a thing to reel her in.  She’d offered.  But he couldn’t do it.  He closed his eyes and stood under the warm shower.

 

He didn’t know who was a sadder bastard:  him for not having gotten anybody into his bed for seventy years, or the Winter Soldier for not getting why he cared.


	48. Bucky's Blonde

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your ongoing comments and kudos, etc--they have kept me motivated through this hellish week of insomnia. I used to have this romantic picture in my head of an insomniac writer, so driven they wrote and wrote, late into the wee hours...and then I _became_ an insomniac writer, and it is not nearly so fun as I thought it was. For one thing, who can write when they're so tired during the day and can't sleep at night? And secondly, that insomniac writer in my head? I forgot they might have to get up early to get kids off to school and do the groceries and dishes and... you get the picture, right?
> 
> It is not a stupid coffee commercial, and I hate it.
> 
> I'm going to have an awesome weekend away, though (no spouses, partners, or children, just friends)! So maybe that will help me break the cycle.
> 
> Or maybe I'll stay up late chatting and drinking and eating too much chocolate. But at least it will be not sleeping on purpose!
> 
> Now: before we get to the chapter, I have an apology, an announcement, and a plea to make.
> 
> First: I am _so_ sorry I didn't post on tumblr to let y'all know I was struggling with this chapter and it would be late; I promise I will be better in the future. Thank you for your patience.
> 
> Second: I have changed the rating on this fic to Explicit. Yes, because of this chapter, which begins with Buck waking up and quickly becomes pure masturbatory smut. That was why I had such issues with this chapter--I was having a terrible time making the transition from Buck's Fun Times to the next bit. I finally solved that problem by saying, "forget it; that can go in the next chapter."
> 
> And what remains? B/B/WS, doing what he's doing? That was hella hard to edit. Very distracting.
> 
> Last, my plea: I'm embarrassed as hell about this chapter's contents, and Marvel seems to be a rather young fandom... If you're under 18, I'm uncomfortable with the idea of you reading this. I think you can skip it without losing too much--it's character development and titillation, not plot. Obviously I can't stop you, and I'm not going to fuss about it much. It's the internet. I can't stop reddit assholes or trolls, either.
> 
> But for the love of God, please don't _tell_ me you're a minor? Let's play Downton Abbey and _just politely ignore it_.
> 
> And if you are an adult of whatever age but don't care for such things, consider this permission to skip too. I'll put a few brief sentences about what you might want to know about this chapter in the end notes.

***

_April 22_ _ nd_

Buck woke up slow and sweet.  The slant of light through the window told him it was early.  He stretched and soaked in the warmth and lazily watched the sun on his walls for a few minutes before rolling out of bed. He needed to piss and he needed something to eat and then he was going back to bed, and he might not get out again until his four o’clock appointment with Doc.  He did what he had to do, lowered the blackout shade, and crawled into bed.  He was asleep again before the Winter Soldier could protest.

 

What roused him was a growing awareness of his hardening penis. He shifted as he woke, and the sheets felt good on his skin, and a twinge of desire nestled in his groin. Lazily he palmed himself with his right hand, pressing his hips up into his loose grip.  Yeah, that was good.  All this time with no one in his bed—he couldn’t remember what it’d been like for Bucky, but he was getting to be a first class masturbator.

 

When his libido had first awakened, some months after he turned himself in to the Avengers, he’d been eager but a little afraid he’d be broken—that he’d find out this was something Hydra had taken from him the way they’d taken it from the Winter Soldier, only it’d be worse; because now he remembered it being good and wanted it again.

 

He nearly cried when everything worked just fine.  The first time was like being broken in a good way—clearing pus out of a wound so it could scab over.  Maybe heal.

 

He went a little crazy with it at first; it felt good and sent Hydra a big “fuck you” at the same time.  Eventually he settled into what felt like a more reasonable routine. He didn’t know what he’d been like before.  Doc had said—not about this; he couldn’t talk about this with a lady doctor.  They’d been talking about eating.

 

But she had said he needed to learn to listen to himself again. To pay attention to his body, so he noticed when he was hungry and fed himself instead of waiting for someone to feed him or give him permission to eat.  Same when he was thirsty or tired or lonely or cranky. He figured it applied.

 

He hadn’t known what to do with his left hand.  The idea of touching himself with it was appalling, so he had clenched it into a fist at his side and pretended it didn’t exist. He did that for a solid month.

 

Doc had encouraged him to claim it as his, not Hydra’s, though; to use it like he used his right hand.  She suggested juggling, since he’d have to use both hands and wouldn’t remind him of fighting, and that worked pretty well.  So he’d gotten pretty damn good at juggling, and then he’d hesitantly branched out, using it more for everyday things:  showering or shaving or brushing his teeth; and that meant starting to use it when he jacked off, too.

 

It had been three months and he still couldn’t bring himself to touch his dick with it.  That was a sure mood-breaker.  But now, as he slipped his right hand inside his boxers, he brought his left hand to his chest and carefully ran it across his nipples.  That was good.

 

He didn’t have more than flashes of his sex life before the war—faces, and now and again kissing or touching or bodies pressed together, and a handful of beautiful memories of being inside a woman he had clung to when they came to him as proof he wasn’t Hydra’s dog and he wasn’t a weapon. He’d been a man and he could be again.

 

It had still been like he was exploring a place he’d heard about or read about in a book or seen in the movies but never been.  He didn’t have a lot of the specifics: did he have a place on his body that drove him nuts when a woman touched it.  Were there things he didn’t like or wouldn’t do. He must have known before how sensitive his nipples were, right?  But for all he had some hazy, happy memories of touching a woman’s breast, he couldn’t remember a single time a dame touched him like that.  But damn—he fucking loved it.  He could get hard just from these gentle touches to his chest.  He could do it forever.

 

Sometimes he did touch himself like that, when he wanted it long and slow: rubbing and squeezing gently, licking his fingers and pretending it was a woman’s tongue on his chest, ignoring his dick until it stood up and begged.

 

But right then he was already hard and feeling less lazy by the second. He closed his eyes and settled in to a nice, easy rhythm.

 

He liked a picture in his head, too:  to imagine it was a woman stroking him.  Skye, maybe, slipping into his bed and waking him with her hand.

_Without knowing she was coming?  I’d kill her the second she touched me._

_Would you please fuck off?  It’s a fantasy.  I get to fucking ignore your paranoia._

 

The Winter Soldier settled down, but he’d messed up that part; so Buck skipped ahead to the part where he was awake already.

 

She was straddling his thighs, smiling flirtatiously, jacking him just right. Her breasts were gorgeous, a nice size and moving slightly as her arm moved.  In a minute she was going to sink down onto him—he licked his right hand and gripped his dick again, a little firmer than before. God, that was fucking amazing; her breasts were jiggling and she was moaning breathily as she rocked against him.  Oh, fuck—she cupped her breasts and pinched her own nipples and now she was really moaning. She wanted it so bad; and he was there for the taking, so she was going to take him.  All he had to do was lay back and love it.

 

She couldn’t touch his nipples anymore, though; not when she was touching herself, and she could not stop doing that because it was so fucking hot. In his head he covered her hands with his own, tangling their fingers; before sliding down so he cupped her breasts for her and she showed off for him, playing with her nipples, showing him how tight they were—beautiful big nubs crowning her beautiful breasts. God, he was so fucking stupid. He should have begged her to take him like this.

_The blonde_

_Oh, fuck me—since when do you care?_

_I don’t._

_So shut the fuck up then._

 

He hated to admit it, but the Winter Soldier was right—Skye was sexy as hell, but he did.  He wanted Bucky’s sweet blonde, too.  He pictured a lot of different women when he jacked off; Natasha had been a favorite for months after he moved in.  But Bucky’s blonde was his guaranteed classic—though she was a little shy. If he wanted hot and sweaty, he needed someone else in mind.  Skye had seemed like she might work, and fuck if she wasn’t good in his head.

 

Two women at once, though—that was damn racy.  He wasn’t sure Bucky’s blonde would fit.

 

He pictured it anyway as he rubbed careful open-palmed circles on his chest with his left hand and moved his right hand up and down on his dick—Skye on top of him, and Bucky’s blonde at the edge of the bed, slipping between the sheets.

 

Hell yeah, this was going to work.  This was going to be fucking fantastic.

 

Needed something, though…

 

He rolled over and grabbed the lube from the side of his bed and slicked up his hand.  Yeah, that was better—warm and wet, more like a woman.  Skye sank down on him again, moaning softly and riding him nice and steady. His blonde sidled up next to him and started to suck on his earlobe as she caressed his chest.

 

Bucky didn’t come out, but the moment his blonde touched Buck, he crept up to watch.  Goddamn, he wanted her.  Not like Buck wanted—not sweat and heat and pleasure.  Buck’d gotten all that, he guessed.  But in his own way, Bucky wanted just the same. His yearning drifted towards Buck. Like wisps of light fog, he hardly noticed it at first; but it surrounded him and grew until he couldn’t feel or see the Winter Soldier at all or anything but the vision in his head, tinted red around the edges with his lust, soft and yielding with Bucky’s overwhelming longing.

 

Fuck. He knew what it was, he just couldn’t bring himself to think it.  He had no memories of Bucky’s blonde that weren’t snatches of fantasy like this. He almost hoped Bucky _had_ had a girl he’d lost every real memory of; because sad as that was, the other option meant he’d been a little nuts before Zola ever got his hands on him. ‘Cause who fell in love with a fucking figment of his imagination?  But fuck if Bucky didn’t love his sweet blonde like nobody else he remembered.

 

It was the reason she was so good for Buck, too.  It made her the prettiest thing he’d ever seen, and the way Bucky felt when he thought about her…  He thought it might be the only good feeling Bucky had anymore.

 

He imagined Skye and Bucky’s blonde starting up again, Skye riding him and his blonde kissing him, sweet as could be.  His lust surged up again; but instead of letting it roll over him and pass away, he surrendered to Bucky’s desire.  It hurt; but it was worth it, for the way it made everything sharper and better and _more_ , and Bucky—Bucky reached out to him through the mist and he felt almost whole, like he was finally doing what he was made to do.

 

Bucky ignored Skye; his blonde was the only one Bucky wanted. But he let her stay for Buck. He felt a flare of—he didn’t know what, then he was drawn back to the sensation of his hand moving on his cock. He fed some of his lust to Bucky, and Bucky’s love flowed back; and the two women in his fantasy nearly glowed from it.

 

He sped up his strokes; and in his mind Skye rode him hard while Bucky’s little blonde kissed her way down his neck to tongue at his nipples. Christ, she wasn’t usually that forward. Must be Skye’s influence.

 

Skye’s influence.

 

Would she?

 

Damn if he couldn’t feel Bucky wondering too.

 

Bucky’s blonde sat up and looked solemnly at him.  Her breasts were perky, not full.  They didn’t jiggle when she moved though her nipples were nice and tight.  Still beautiful, though, and perfect for her slight frame.

 

Then she—oh fuck, she _did_ ; she _would_ —tilted Skye’s head to her and kissed her, open-mouthed and dirty, so he could see their tongues touching.  That was so good, so hot and sexy and dirty, so fucking dirty—two women in bed with him, one fucking him down into the mattress while the other kissed her like a whore for him to watch.  Bucky’s blonde caught his eye and blushed, but she gently pulled Skye’s head to her sweet tits and arched her back for him to see.  She never looked away from him.  She liked it all right; but she was doing it for him, because he wanted it. Skye clutched his blonde’s hips to steady herself, and moaned and sucked on those pretty pink nipples like she’d never had anything so sweet before, never losing her steady rhythm as she fucked herself on him; and Bucky’s blonde blushed and bit her lip but held his gaze.  She was always like that: brave, and she could be feisty; but so sweet he could almost cry with it.

 

She’d never been so dirty before in her life—half the time when he pictured her she’d never been touched before.  He loved seeing her like this so damn much…  She started off giving this to him; but she was learning she loved it, too.  He kept one hand on Skye’s breast, thumbing her nipple lazily, and with his other hand—he banished the metal; that was okay for him but not for his sweetheart—he slipped his finger between her legs.  She gasped and opened her legs just a fraction.  She was wet, so wet he slipped inside that virgin slit like it was nothing; and she panted and cried his name in a wavering voice and came like that, clenching around his finger and holding Skye’s mouth to her sweet breasts.  She pulled Skye up to kiss her again and he rubbed circles into her clit until she came again, panting:  _Bucky, Bucky, Bucky, Bucky_ …

 

He fucked her with that one finger until she pushed his hands away and held them tight in her own and lowered her head to worship Skye’s luscious breasts with her mouth—tongue and lips and—oh, _fuck_ —teeth.  It was so good for Skye she screamed, screamed high and loud and writhed as she rode him hard; then she was gone, and it was his blonde riding him in her place.  He bucked his hips and thrust into his hand, while in his head he rolled her over and fucked her—so hard, so good—until she was wailing; then he rolled again so she was on top of him, shaking and crying his name; and Skye was back—sitting on his thighs, behind Bucky’s blonde, reaching around to caress her—one hand pinching her nipples, the other sliding down her abdomen to find her clit. The moment she did, his sweet blonde’s moans went high and desperate—the most beautiful noises in the whole damn world.

 

That did it.  He threw his own head back and came, hard and strong and good.

 _That was nearly as good as an actual woman._   He ignored the mess to lay panting in his bed.  He’d clean up in a second.  He wasn’t done reveling.  This was about as good as his life got these days: cocooned in his own wonderful bed, held safe within the maybe blue, maybe green walls of his bedroom, having imaginary sex.

 

Fucking incredible imaginary sex, but still.  Not the real deal.

 

It was pretty pathetic, but at that moment he wasn’t sure he cared. It had been so goddamn good. He had not known Bucky’s shy little thing had that in her.  He could barely believe how good she’d been.

 

If Skye’s sensuality brought that out…

 

What would she be like with Natasha, who in his head was acrobatic and bold and spoke with a Russian accent?

 

Would she sit for him and Natasha—tremble and wear a filmy white slip of a thing while Natasha groomed her for him as he watched—making up her face and brushing her feathery hair—maybe clipping it back from her sweet face with lacy little bows…touching her a little too intimately, as if by accident: hands brushing her nipples as she adjusted the fit of her bodice, or smoothing the sheer fabric firmly over her bottom, or pushing her thighs apart so she could stand between her legs and tilt her chin up to blot those red lips?  Natasha would smile knowingly at him as he watched and wanted, but what would Bucky’s blonde do?  Blush and look at the ground, or meet his gaze straight on, innocent but unafraid? Would she shake and look down until Natasha held her chin tight and demanded her attention, then shake with anticipation, not knowing what Natasha would do next, not knowing if she wanted more or not?  Or would she tilt that stubborn chin up and dare Natasha to do her worst?

 

Would she let him blindfold her—quiver on her stool as they touched her, knowing it was both of them, but not knowing whose hands were where and which mouth was his and which was Natasha’s, until they guided her to the bed and gently worked him into her, while Natasha reclined into the pillows piled behind her, teasing those sweet breasts, and he leaned down to kiss first one, then the other? Would she beg them both? _Bucky, Talia, please, please, Bucky, Bucky, oh! oh! oh!  Yes, Talia, Talia, please, yes!  Yes! Please, Talia, please, Bucky, please—_

 

Oh, _fuck_ —she was so innocent; and everything shocked her, but she loved everything he did to her.  And she loved to make him feel good…  What would she do if Buck stood over her as she knelt and gently pushed his dick between her parted lips?  If they— _jesus fucking christ_ —if they took off her blindfold and Natasha taught her how to suck him, showing her just what to do; and she would hesitantly copy what Natasha did until she gained enough confidence to flash those pretty blue eyes at him through the longest fucking lashes in the world, teasing and challenging and sweet…

 

He groped blindly for the lube as he began to pump into his hand.  Fucking hell, Bucky’s sweet angel was turning into a perfect goddess of sex in his head.   This was like when he first retaught himself to enjoy his body because it was his, not Hydra’s, and he couldn’t believe how good it felt, and he could hardly think about anything else.  So damn good…he might never get out of bed again, but what a way to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buck masturbates while fantasizing about having sex with "Bucky's blonde," a slight, blue-eyed blonde girl whose resemblance to a female pre-serum Steve is so obvious he has to be wilfully ignoring it, with first Skye, than Natasha, participating to make a threesome. The Winter Soldier mostly stays in the background, but Bucky shows some interest. It's pretty much Buck's show, though.
> 
> As he does, he thinks some about advice Doc gave him about relearning autonomy by paying attention to his body's needs, and how becoming interested in sex again was important to him in reclaiming his identity as "a man, not Hydra's dog;" and that Bucky loves "his sweet blonde," despite no memories that suggest she was actually real.
> 
> Yes, that's really the whole chapter.


	49. What are You Feeling?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter kicked my butt (obviously!). It's not that the Winter Soldier doesn't cooperate during his therapy sessions, but he damn well wasn't cooperating with _me_.
> 
> So I'm sorry this took so long and is on the shortish side. There's a piece or two I wanted to fit in here but it didn't happen--there's a chance I may revise this chapter to add a chunk. I'll let you know!
> 
> And I have very much appreciated the supportive comments both here and on tumblr--it makes all the difference when I hit a boggy bit like this to know that y'all are out there waiting and cheering me on...

***

 

_April 22 nd_

A satiated and lazy Buck, wallowing in sensual pink contentment, was easy to push aside.  He practically smiled and rolled out of the way when the Winter Soldier moved up.

 

As he opened his eyes and pushed back the covers, he felt Bucky moving, too. Not up, not out of his hiding place, but within it.   He so seldom saw or heard Bucky at all.  Curious, the Winter Soldier turned towards the shifting oubliette. He watched for only a moment before an oily wash of horror rolled over him, leaching away color and warmth as Bucky fled deeper.  The Winter Soldier could no longer sense him.

_What the fuck did you do that for?_

_I felt him move.  I didn’t do anything._

_You don’t have to do anything but be your fucking self. Leave Bucky alone._

 

The Winter Soldier dropped it.  Bucky had retreated, and he would have to hurry to get to Doc’s before the hour. Buck’s concupiscence had delayed them.

_Fuck off.  There ain’t nothing wrong with it.  A man has needs._

_It’s a waste of time_.

 

Buck’s answer came in bloated swells of cerise satisfaction.

 

There wasn’t a point to arguing when he was like this.  The Winter Soldier climbed out of bed and began to dress.  He hated being late. It didn’t matter why it happened. Hydra had always ensured he suffered for it.

 

He took the stairs again and succeeded in making it to the street without seeing any Avengers.  Such a simple strategy wouldn’t work forever.  He could buy his own groceries and stay out of the communal living areas; but eventually he’d run into someone in the gym or they’d get the call to assemble.

 

But the longer he could stay out of the way, the better.

 

It was one more example of Buck’s foolishness.  Hitting Steve Rogers in front of the assembled Avengers…  Buck was incompetent.  He never thought. He reacted from emotion.

 

The walk to Doc’s wasn’t long, and he didn’t bother to hide. Hydra knew where he lived, and they must know about Doc.  But there wasn’t much of strategic value they could gain by attacking her, and she had security precautions—not perfect ones, but good enough to keep out a fractured and disorganized Hydra.  Still—he didn’t hide; but he didn’t relax, either, particularly as he passed Grand Central Terminal.

 

The door to Doc’s office was mostly open.  Cautiously he pushed it all the way to the wall, and Doc looked up from her reading.  She regarded him for a moment.

 

“Winter Soldier?” she asked, setting her book aside.  He nodded.  “Come in.”  She waited while he entered, closed and locked the door behind him, and moved his chair to a position out of sight of the window and with a good angle at the door. “What would you like to discuss today?”

 

Buck pushed in response to her question, and the Winter Soldier pushed back hard.  He had no intention of letting Buck out during this session.  He was momentarily silent as they struggled.  Finally Buck retreated, though the Soldier was sure he’d try again before the end of their time with Doc.  He wanted that safety agreement.  Doc waited patiently while he and Buck fought.

 

“Memory recovery,” he said when he was certain of his control.

 

Doc nodded.

 

“I went AWOL in September 1976 after completing a mission and ended up in New York,” he explained.

 

“Do you have any memories associated with that incident?” she asked.

 

He shrugged.

 

“We can read the entry in your file; but if possible, I’d like to start with a memory you already have access to,” she said.  “It’s a way to connect to where your experiences of that time and place are stored in your mind.  Think about the sounds.  The smells.  If you feel comfortable, closing your eyes may help you focus on those memories.”

 

He nodded.  Buck sometimes closed his eyes when he did this, but Doc didn’t seem surprised when he chose not to. She gave him a minute to think while she looked over the incident report in his file.

 

“What do you see?” she asked.  “Hear, or smell?  Any sensory details?”

 

_Brown and green glass from broken bottles crunching under his feet. Sunlight glinting off the water. The smell of garbage and car exhaust.  Heat reflecting off cracked asphalt.  Muted sounds of traffic._

 

He didn’t speak.  Doc waited a while before she prompted him.

 

“This says you were tracked to Brooklyn Heights,” she said.  “It’s very likely you have experiences in that neighborhood from your youth.  Would you like to begin with one of those memories?”

 

_The smells of beef stew and fry oil. Catcalls.  Boys’ voices, yelling, and running footsteps. A woman’s voice, pretty but thin, singing.  He couldn’t remember the words to her song, only a fragment of the melody.  A boy’s indignant cries.  Laughter._

 

“We found Steve Rogers,” he told her.  “He was in San Francisco.”

 

Doc’s eyebrows went up, but otherwise her expression remained calm.

 

“I wasn’t aware he was missing,” she said. 

 

He nodded.  “He was gone for seven weeks.”

 

“Was that difficult for you?” she asked.  “Any of you?”

 

He tracked the perimeter of her office with his eyes, noting the small changes—books shifted on the shelves, the tchotchkes moved for dusting then positioned differently afterwards.  She had trimmed the bonsai in the window since his last visit.

 

Doc waited.

 

“He called me Barnes,” he told her.  “He asked me to be Captain America until he returns to New York.”

 

She gave him a minute before encouraging him.  “Would you like to tell me about that?”

 

He frowned, and she waited.

 

“He said I wasn’t his friend anymore,” he said.  “I told him I was the Winter Soldier. He acknowledged that and asked me to do it anyway.  He said that wasn’t who I have to be.”

 

“How did you respond?” she asked.

 

“How does he know?” he asked her.  “He doesn’t know me.”

 

“He and Bucky were friends,” Doc said.

 

“He’s my mission,” he said.

 

“That has been a source of tension between the three of you.”

 

He nodded.

 

“What are you feeling right now?” Doc asked.

 

He frowned.  “I don’t have feelings.”

 

“Everyone has feelings.”

 

He shook his head.  “Not me. Hydra took them.”

 

“Hydra tortured you,” Doc said.  “They subjected you to painful procedures designed to eradicate your sense of your own identity.  Your Dissociative Identity Disorder stems from this, and your amnesia.  Another consequence may be psychological numbing.  It doesn't mean your emotions do not exist.  Hydra could create conditions that commonly lead to dissociation.  They couldn’t take your emotions.”  She paused. “Hydra erased your memories, not your humanity, James.”

 

He blinked repeatedly to clear his watering eyes.  His chest ached.

 

“Do you know what you’re feeling now?” Doc asked.

 

He thought about it.  “No,” he admitted.

 

“That would be a good exercise for you between now and our next session,” she suggested.  “Pay attention to yourself.  Simply notice your state of being.  Often an emotion has a corresponding physical cue.  That may be easiest to identify at first.”

 

Like hunger?  Or Buck’s lust?

 

_Do not fucking talk about sex with Doc!_

 

_Was that sex?  You were alone.  You complain often about missing sex but you do that regularly._

_Close enough to count.  Doc’s a lady.  You don’t talk about that kind of shit in front of a lady._

_You’ve talked about it with Natasha._

_That’s different, okay?_

 

“James?” Doc said.  “Are you still with me?”

 

“Buck and I were talking,” he said.  “He…”  He paused as he realized it. “He's feeling embarrassment.”

 

“Did he tell you that?” she asked.

 

He shook his head.

 

“What does it feel like?” she asked.

 

“It’s not mine,” he said.

 

“How do you know he’s feeling it, then?”

 

How did he know?

 

“It feels…” he said slowly.  “It feels hot on my face.  Like brown waves crashing in my stomach.”

 

“Good,” she said.  “Do you think you can continue to notice on your own?”

 

He shrugged.

 

“Are you willing to try?” she asked, and he nodded.

 

The rest of the session he was primarily occupied with keeping Buck from emerging.  He held on until Doc suggested happiness was one of the emotions he should watch for. He didn’t feel happiness. He wasn’t capable of it. He opened his mouth to tell Doc that; but he floundered, and Buck grabbed control.

 

“We need a new safety agreement,” Buck told Doc.

 

“I think that’s a good idea,” Doc said.  “What goals would you like to accomplish with it?”

 

“The Winter Soldier needs a leash,” Buck said.  “I don’t care about the rest.”

 

“I’d like to hear from Bucky and the Winter Soldier,” she said. “They may have additional suggestions.”

 

Buck rolled his eyes.

 

“Bucky won’t,” he said.  “You know that, right?  He’s never gonna. And I don’t fucking care what the fucking Winter Soldier wants.”

 

“Nevertheless, his consent will be necessary,” Doc said.  “Nor can we assume we know his mind.  Bucky may surprise us.”  She paused.  “Would you like to talk about your encounter with Captain Rogers in San Francisco?”

 

Buck dropped his head into his hands.

 

“I don’t know what there is to say,” he replied.  “I fucked up.  I mean, I fucked up there, but I’ve been fucking up all along. He’s done with me.”

 

“Can you tell me how you feel about it?” she asked.

 

Buck frowned at her.

 

“How do you think I felt?” he asked.  “Guilty.  Helpless. Hurt.  Angry.  Like I hate myself.”  His voice wobbled on that last one.

 

The Winter Soldier felt it as Buck brought up each emotion: the chill of guilt, melding into gray helplessness.  Mottled spikes of hurt.  Anger, burning and red and bitter.  Hatred, an endless black abyss sweeping everything else away.  They were all so familiar to him.  These were the elements of his world.  Buck felt them all too—all but the white, wet cold to the bone.

 

Buck felt them and could name them.  And Buck felt so much more.

 

_I’ll agree to what you want if you’ll agree to what I want._

 

_What the fuck?  I thought safety agreements were ‘pointless.’_

_You’re the one who wants one.  Are you willing to negotiate or not?_

 

Buck paused.

 

_All right, I’m listening._

_What do you want?_

_You know what the fuck I want.  Your word that you’ll leave Steve alone. That you won’t kill him.  What do you want?_

_I want to know what you’re feeling as you feel it._

_Are you fucking kidding me?_

_That’s what I want._

_You’re taking this ‘psychological numbing’ crap pretty seriously._

_It’s true.  Maybe not for you but it is for me._

 

Buck pulled back a bit, until the Winter Soldier couldn’t hear his thoughts. When he spoke next, it was to Doc.

 

“I want it back to a month,” he said.  “He won’t kill Steve, exactly like in previous agreements, and I’ll tell him when I’m feeling something.”

 

The Winter Soldier nudged Buck; and he moved to one side, allowing the Winter Soldier to speak.

 

“Not when he’s feeling something,” he explained.  “What the emotion is that he’s feeling.” He paused.  A cold white something slithered by, close enough to make him shiver.  “Sometimes I can feel it already.  But if I can’t, I want him to share it with me.  And if I feel something he recognizes, I want him to tell me what it is, too.”

 

Doc nodded.  “Is that something you can agree to, Buck?”

 

“Why the hell not?” he said.  “Sounds easy.”

 

“What’s easy for one of you may not be easy for another,” Doc said. “What about Bucky? Is there anything he would like to add, or is he willing to agree to this safety agreement as it stands?”

 

Buck shoved the Winter Soldier back, providing a buffer zone between him and Bucky.  As usual, the Winter Soldier couldn’t feel or hear Bucky until he spoke aloud. There was a long wait, but he didn’t know if that was because Bucky was speaking to Buck or if it was because he was so slow to emerge from his hiding place.  But at last he surfaced.

 

“I agree,” Bucky said quietly.

 

“As long as the Winter Soldier stays away from him,” Buck added. “I don’t want him taking advantage if this gives him a chance to hurt Bucky.”

 

“I have no reason to hurt Bucky,” the Winter Soldier said.

 

“Did I ask if you had a fucking reason?” Buck asked.  “Bucky comes first.  If he needs me, I’m gonna help him.  After he’s good, we can have Feelings for Dummies. But he comes first, and you agree to leave him alone.”

 

The Winter Soldier thought about it.

 

“I agree,” he said.


	50. Chicken Soup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you mean, it's not Tuesday? *sighs* I should change what it says in the fic summary, but I'm completely out of characters. Not even enough left to add an "-ish" to the end of Tuesday.
> 
> So I'm sorry! But the good news is, next week's chapter is completely written, so that one will be--barring emergency--on time.
> 
> The week after that... *cringes*
> 
> You see, next week is spring break, so all the children will be home from school. So while I will continue to attempt to write, I anticipate many, many distractions and interruptions. So _that_ chapter, which is at this point pretty rough...I have trepidation re a Tuesday update. I will do my best!
> 
> But as you are aware, I am a flawed creature, and sometimes my best _sucks_.
> 
> LOVE YOU ALL HUGS AND SNUGGLES AND KISSES TO YOU SWEET DARLINGS
> 
> fyi: The story Tony tells at dinner is not true to Iron Man II canon. Confession time: I've never seen the whole movie. The last several times I tried, I had to bail out at the scene where a drunken Tony crashes the Expo. It's extraordinarily uncomfortable for me.
> 
> So I took a piece or two I knew about the movie, and I modified it a bit to suit my purposes. Hopefully y'all can forgive this egregious manipulation on my part!
> 
> *innocent eyelashes*

***

_April 22nd_

Stark had talked about going after Hydra’s remaining boltholes in the city, but they hadn’t discussed any details of their plan in San Francisco, and he hadn’t heard anything from the Avengers since their return to New York. They had no timeline, no strategy, no preparations…

 

That wasn’t quite true.  The informal strategy, as Stark had stated it, was to drive Hydra from New York.

 

_Ain’t enough.  We need to fucking salt the earth._

_What?_

_I want to hurt ‘em so bad they piss themselves even thinking about coming back.  I want ‘em terrified of New York.  I want ‘em to know any Hydra who sets one fucking foot in this city is gonna die slow and painful as we can make it._

 

The Winter Soldier considered that.

 

 

The sort of surveillance necessary to monitor the entire city for Hydra infiltration was immense.  It wasn’t a practical possibility.  However, scared of the city?  Terrified by what he would do if he caught them?  That was feasible.  He considered tactics as he walked back to Avengers Tower.  Already he regretted the S.H.I.E.L.D. team’s departure. With their help, this could be done in a day.  Without them—without Thor, Rogers, and Barton; most likely without Banner as well—this would be much slower. Hydra was going to have time to communicate with each other:  to prepare a defense, or to flee.

 

On the other hand, none of the others—not even Natasha—would be willing to do this the way it would have to be done to scare Hydra off as permanently as possible. How much benefit could they be, in that case?

 

It had been three days since their assault on Rikers-LaGuardia.  That was already too long.  They couldn’t give Hydra any more time than they’d already had.

 

_We have to speak to the Avengers._

_It’s not like they’re gonna listen.  They’re still pissed off at us._

_If they have made plans to attack Hydra, we need to know them._

 

Buck conceded the truth of that.

 

_But if they aren’t moving fast enough, we ain’t waiting._

_No. We start tonight, with or without the Avengers._

 

Accordingly, when he reached the Tower, the Winter Soldier went to the communal floor rather than his own.  No one was there.

 

“JARVIS,” he said.  “Where are the Avengers?”

 

“Miss Romanov and Mister Barton are on his floor,” JARVIS said. “Mister Stark and Mister Banner are in Mister Stark’s lab.  Captain Rogers is not in the Tower at present.”

 

He frowned.  He should speak to Stark, but Banner had been noticeably uncomfortable in his presence the previous night.  Should he wait until they separated?  If they were conducting an experiment, it could be some time.

 

_I got an idea, maybe._

_What is it?_

_We gotta treat ‘em like we’re a family.  They are, really.  The Avengers are the closest thing to a family any of ‘em has these days. But they don’t know how to do it. None of ‘em had great childhoods. Growing up, Steve and Bucky were way better off than the rest of them, even in the Depression._

_Maybe they’re a family, but we’re not a part of it._

_Sure we are.  We’re the troubled foster kid._

_I know nothing about families._

_That’s okay.  Bucky does. He had a great family._

_Bucky doesn’t speak._

_Is it too much to ask you to trust me about this one fucking thing? One fucking thing. It’s worth a try._

 

There was a long pause.  In the end, the Winter Soldier didn’t concede.  But he did retreat.  Buck went to the kitchen to evaluate his supplies.

 

_This is your solution?  You’re not a good cook._

_Fuck you, asshole!  You’ve never even tried.  I’ll have help, anyway.  I’m recruiting a partner._

_This is stupid._

 

Buck ignored the Winter Soldier’s skepticism.

 

“JARVIS,” he said.  “I got a research project to do for the Avengers, but I’m gonna need some back up:  someone who can assemble a shit ton of published work on a subject, evaluate it for quality based on consensus opinion and the acknowledged expertise of the sources, then develop a recommended procedure using the results of this study.  You in?”

 

“I am uniquely qualified to provide such a service, sir,” JARVIS said. “What is the subject of your research?”

 

“Chicken soup,” Buck replied.

 

There was a short pause before JARVIS responded.

 

“An unexpected topic, but nevertheless, I am pleased to be of assistance,” he said.  “Where would you like to begin?”

 

“Ingredients,” Buck said.  “And we’ve got a deadline.”

 

“Am I to extrapolate that you intend to develop the recipe for the ideal chicken soup, procure the ingredients, prepare it, and serve it for dinner this evening?” JARVIS asked.  He sounded a little nervous.

 

“Come on; live a little,” Buck told him.

 

“I will endeavor to assist you to the best of my ability,” JARVIS said. Buck could practically hear him girding his non-corporeal loins.

 

“That’s the spirit,” Buck said.  “What do you got?”

 

***

 

 

Three hours later, JARVIS interrupted him as he strained his from scratch chicken broth.  He’d tasted it, and it was pretty damn good.

 

_Ha! “Mediocre cook,” my ass. I’m a damn genius in the kitchen._

“Sir, Mister Stark has requested I order food delivered for himself and Doctor Banner,” he said.  “How would you like to proceed?”

 

“Tell him I made dinner for everybody,” he said. “It’ll be ready in…” He frowned.  “Forty-five minutes?”

 

“Very well, sir,” JARVIS said.  “Would you like me to notify Miss Romanov and Mister Barton as well?”

 

“Tell them I can deliver it to ‘em if Barton’s not up to dinner with everybody,” Buck said.

 

“I will,” JARVIS said.

 

A few minutes later he was back.

 

“Mister Stark and Mister Banner will join you in forty minutes,” he said. “Miss Romanov and Mister Barton regretfully decline.  They will, however, accept your offer to deliver dinner.”

 

“Great,” Buck said.  He looked at his notes.  “What’s the first step for the dumplings again?”

 

***

 

Thirty-five minutes later, Buck was knocking on Barton’s door.

 

“Room service!” he yelled.

 

“Sergeant Barnes, I would be pleased to announce you,” JARVIS said primly.

 

“Thanks, pal,” Buck said.  “I got it.”

 

“May I remind you, sir, my designation is JARVIS.”

 

“And I ain’t a sergeant anymore,” Buck said.  “Take the stick out of your ass.”

 

That was when Natasha opened the door.  She raised an arch eyebrow.

 

“I hope you’re not expecting a tip,” she said.  “Not after that greeting.”

 

“Would I say that to a pretty lady like you?” Buck said.  “I was talking to JARVIS.”

 

“Not quite the same, is he?” Natasha asked.  She stood aside so he could push the dinner cart in. “So what’s for dinner?”

 

He wheeled the cart over to the dining table and started unloading it. Natasha got out the dishes and started to set the table for two.  Barton wasn’t in sight.

 

“Chicken soup with dumplings,” he replied.  “And that spinach salad you like with the lemon vinaigrette. Strawberries for dessert.”

 

Natasha went back to the kitchen for soup spoons.  She took the lid off the tureen and fished out a dumpling to taste.

 

“Not bad,” she said approvingly.

 

“Least I could do,” he said.  “How’s Barton?”

 

“Complaining about bed rest,” she said.  “Doctor Bhaduri says he should be able to start to move again tomorrow. Nothing strenuous. Short walks, that sort of thing.”

 

He nodded.  “Tell him hi for me,” he said, gesturing vaguely towards the bedroom door.  “I gotta go.  Stark and Banner should be showing up soon.”

 

“Thanks,” she said.  She walked him to the elevator and waited until he’d pressed the call button. “We’ll be talking soon, you and I, about Steve.”

 

“Sure,” he said.  “Can’t wait.” The elevator doors opened and he made his escape.  “Thanks, JARVIS. That was just in time.”

 

“You’re welcome, sir,” JARVIS said.  “Miss Romanov is…formidable.”

 

“That’s for fucking sure,” he replied.  “I ain’t looking forward to that conversation.”  The elevator doors opened on the communal floor.

 

“You may leave the cart on the elevator,” JARVIS said.  “Butterfingers will retrieve it.”

 

“Thanks,” Buck said.  He paused a second before exiting the elevator.  “Really, JARVIS.  Thanks. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

 

“You are most welcome, sir,” JARVIS replied.  He sounded pleased with himself.  Buck smiled.  JARVIS rebooted was kind of like a little kid seeking approval. It was sweet.

 

Tony and Bruce were already in the kitchen.  Tony was eating strawberries straight out of the bowl.

 

“Save some for the rest of us,” Buck said.  “That’s dessert.”

 

“Apologizing with food is a hit or miss proposition,” Tony said.  He popped another strawberry in his mouth. “I’ve tried it before, and whoa did it backfire.”

 

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Buck said.  “Where the hell did you learn your manners?”

 

Tony took another strawberry and pointed it at Buck.

 

“Where is the groveling?” he asked.  “There should be more groveling.”

 

Buck took the bowl of strawberries away and pointed the two men in the direction of the table.

 

“Sit down,” he said.  “I’ll serve up the soup.”  He handed the strawberries to Bruce and the salad to Tony before ladling out the soup and bringing it to the table.  Tony raised his eyebrows at his first spoonful.

 

“Who knew you could cook?” he asked.  “You’re on permanent kitchen duty from now on.”  He paused for another bite of soup.  “Did I ever tell you the story about Pepper and strawberries?”

 

“I’ve heard it,” Bruce said.  He nodded at Buck.  “This is good. Thanks for making dinner.”

 

Buck shrugged.  “I owe you one,” he said.  “I could have worn one of Steve’s suits, you know.  You don’t have to make me my own uniform.  I appreciate it.”  He took a bite of dumpling.  Damn, those were good.

 

_You did what JARVIS told you to do.  He did the real work._

 

He ignored the Winter Soldier’s criticism.  JARVIS had done the research, but he had done the cooking. He got to take credit for that.

 

“I haven’t heard the strawberry story,” he said.

 

“It was when I was dying of palladium poisoning,” Tony said.  He settled back in his chair and got ready to hold forth.  “I didn’t tell Pepper; not ’till the end.  I didn’t want her worrying and fussing and treating me carefully, you know? I didn’t want her to change. When I decided it was time to confess, I set up this big thing.  Champagne, chocolate covered organic strawberries…it was all very romantic.”  He grimaced.

 

“Except she’s allergic to strawberries.  I knew there was something about her and strawberries.  Just forgot what it was.”  He shrugged and had another spoonful of soup.

 

“There was some yelling.  No doubt I deserved it, of course.  She’s never been anything but good to me.”

 

He pointed his spoon at Buck.  “Kind of like Steve and you.  He has been unbelievably patient with you, and that is not a patient man. Believe me—I’ve been on the end of his temper.  And you’ve been treating him like garbage since you turned yourself in.  I’ve had friends take a swing at me. It happens.  Sometimes even your best friends can get fed up. But between the two of you, Steve’s not the one who’s been shitting on the other.  He hasn’t deserved a single second of your crap.”

 

Fuck.

 

Bucky was sobbing.  _Stevie Stevie I’m so sorry Stevie_

_It was my fault.  I’m gonna fix it but it might take a little time._

_no too late he’s done done with me_

_Don’t give up, okay?  Steve’s a good guy.  You know how he is. Stark’s right; he’s got a temper. He’ll forgive us. He just has to calm down first._

_don’t wanna hear it  YOU drove him away  did it on purpose think I don’t know? I hate you!_

 

Buck fled.  He didn’t know where he went.  Deeper than he’d ever been, even under the Winter Soldier’s bloodiest years—so deep that he couldn’t sense Bucky anymore.  He didn’t need to.  He knew what he’d be saying.  _Worthless. Despicable.  Fucking incompetent asshole.  Fool.  Hate you, hate you, hate you._

 

“—Hello?” Tony was saying.  “Anybody in there?”

 

“I apologized,” he said abruptly.  “Buck did.  To Steve Rogers.”  Banner turned toward him.

 

“Winter Soldier,” Banner said.

 

He nodded.

 

“Was Buck apologizing for himself or for you?” Banner asked.

 

He frowned.  “What do you mean?”

 

“Who hit Steve?  Or was that a joint effort?” Banner clarified.

 

That wasn’t an easy question.  Buck had been the one to push past to do it, but Bucky’s deep pain had been the spur to his fury.  That pain had been so strong, even he had felt it.

 

“It was Buck,” he said at last.  “But he didn’t do it for himself.  He did it for Bucky.”

 

“Wait a second,” Stark said.  “Clint said Bucky didn’t come out.”

 

“Almost never,” he confirmed.

 

“But he’s in charge anyway?  Buck does what he tells him to?” Stark persisted.  “I thought Buck was the boss.”

 

“That’s not how DID works,” Banner said.  “There’s no ‘boss’ alter.”

 

Stark frowned.  “How the hell do you decide who gets to steer?”

 

The Winter Soldier looked away.

 

“It depends,” he said.

 

“Depends on what?” Stark asked.

 

He shrugged.

 

“Talking to you is like getting the truth out of Nick Fury,” Stark said. “What does it depend on?”

 

He tried to retreat.

 

There was nowhere to go.  Where was Buck?

 

“Sometimes we agree,” he said hesitantly.  “Like for the Hydra assault.  I had the best knowledge of the facility and I’m trained for it. So Buck yielded.”

 

“And if Buck doesn’t yield?”

 

“Sometimes one of us retreats,” he said.  “In a situation that’s not comfortable for him.”

 

“Buck retreated just now, didn’t he?” Banner asked.  “Because of what Tony said.”  He seemed intrigued, but it was tempered with something else.  Pity, maybe.

 

He nodded.

 

“That’s interesting, but you’re avoiding the question,” Stark said. “How do you decide who’s running the show on a daily basis?  When either a mouthy asshole or a killing machine would do?”

 

He pressed his lips tightly together and blinked away swirling gray and purplish-brown and black.

 

“We fight for it.”

 

There was a long moment of silence.  No one touched their food.

 

He waited, but neither of them said anything.  He glanced quickly at first Banner, then Stark.

 

“Is that why Bucky is never out?” Banner asked quietly.  “Because he loses the fights?”

 

He shook his head.

 

“Bucky doesn’t want out,” he said.  “Bucky…he doesn’t come out.”

 

“How the hell are you supposed to get better like that?” Stark asked. “And how are you not drinking a lot?  It sounds exhausting.”

 

“It sounds like it hurts,” Banner said.

 

The Winter Soldier shrugged.

 

“Unification isn’t our goal,” he said quietly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested, [this](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/113355413288/i-havent-tested-it-but-this-weekend-im-going-to) is the recipe JARVIS recommends and Buck makes.


	51. Meeting Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe it? It's actually Tuesday, and here's a new chapter...
> 
> This jumps about two weeks into the future, to Steve and Sam's arrival in Minneapolis, so keep that in mind... The timeline will drop back to April again when we return to NY and B/B/WS, but it's definitely time to check in with Steve--and while he and Sam had a good time on the road, don't worry about missing it. Nothing too exciting happened.
> 
> My thanks all of you who commented on the last chapter; I'm slowing chipping away at my inbox. If I haven't replied to your comment yet, I appreciate your patience very much--and I promise I will get there!

***

_May 7th_

Steve and Sam pulled up in front of the Eagle about noon.  Hansen was going to meet them, but he’d said on the phone that it was going to be more like 12:30 or 1:00 until he could get away, so go ahead and eat instead of waiting for him.

 

Steve wanted to wait, though.

 

“Are you up for a game of darts?” he asked Sam.

 

“That depends,” Sam said.  “Are you any better?”

 

“A little bit,” he admitted.  “That’s how I met Hansen.  He saw me throwing darts and took pity on me because I was so terrible. He gave me a lesson.”

 

“I’m thinking he had ulterior motives,” Sam said.

 

“It’s possible,” Steve said with a smile.

 

Sam grinned.  “I’ll give it a shot,” he said.  “But if by ‘a little bit,’ you mean now you’re good enough to pin the tale on the donkey from 500 yards, your boy Hansen and I are going to have words.”

 

“Not quite,” Steve laughed.  “Not even close.”

 

Steve went to the bar to grab a couple beers and the darts.  Sam had been trouncing him for about ten minutes when Steve became aware they had an audience.  He turned with a smile on his face, expecting Hansen.

 

It was that grad student, the one who’d outed him as Captain America before Steve had a chance to tell Hansen himself.  His smile faded.

 

The guy winced.

 

“I guess you remember me,” he said.

 

Steve nodded.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said.  “I got a little carried away.”

 

A little?  Steve’s eyebrows went up.  Sam looked at the grad student, then back at Steve.  He extended his hand to the guy—what had his name been?  Ben.

 

“Sam Wilson,” he said.  “Seems like you’ve met my friend.”

 

“Yeah—umm. Yeah.  Ben Solomon.”  Ben grabbed Sam’s hand and shook it vigorously. “I’m a student at the U of M. My doctoral thesis is on World War II; so a month ago when my boyfriend and I saw Cap here, I knew him right away.”

 

“You just did it again,” Steve exclaimed.  “What if he didn’t know?”  He gestured from his newly darkened hair to his black leather pants. “Do I look like I’m in uniform, or do I look like maybe I don’t want to be recognized?”

 

Ben closed his eyes and grimaced.

 

“Yeah, you’re right.  I’m sorry! I just—I don’t get how anyone couldn’t see it was you, no matter what you’re wearing.  And I’m a little nervous.”  He took a deep breath.  “I wanted to ask—like I said, my thesis…”

 

Steve shook his head.  Nope. Not happening.

 

“Please, Ca—“ Ben said.  “It would be an incredible coup for me—“

 

“This is my life!” Steve exclaimed.  “I’m not coming out for your doctoral thesis!”

 

“No!” Ben said, his hands held up in supplication.  “No; I’m not…  It’s thrilling on a personal level to learn that you’re gay; I can’t tell you how thrilling that is!  But that’s not what I’m asking for.  I promise I won’t touch your personal life.” He paused.  “Not for my thesis…I mean, if you’re interested, the threesome offer is for sure on the table whenever—“

 

Steve crossed his arms and glared, and Ben broke off.  Sam coughed a few times, and Steve glared at him too. Sam’s grin grew.

 

“What I was trying to say was, it would be a coup for me; but for you: you’d get a chance to share your experiences and opinions,” Ben said in a placating tone. “I thought you might be interested. I gotta tell you: the powers that be have been telling the American people all sorts of things about what you stood for since the day you went down in the Valkyrie.  Wouldn’t it be good to tell them yourself?”

 

“You’re not the first to ask me to ‘set the record straight,’” he said. “Won’t be the last. I won’t talk about my political leanings or whether the Vietnam War was justified or would I have dropped the atom bomb or run for President or reminisce about the good old days so you can make waves with your paper.”

 

“No, I don’t…“ Ben said.  He took a deep breath and started again.  “My thesis is about how you and the Howling Commandos were portrayed during wartime propaganda, and how that propaganda was perceived back in the States, compared to your reputation with the SSR and the Army in the European theater; and how that affected public policy, specifically desegregation of U.S. Armed Forces.”

 

Shoot. Steve looked at Sam, and Sam tilted his head and shrugged.

 

Steve sighed.

 

“Let’s sit down, and you can tell me more about your thesis,” he said. He pointed his beer bottle at Ben. “I’m not making any promises.”

 

Ben Solomon looked like it was his birthday and Christmas rolled into one—or for him, Hanukkah, Steve guessed.

 

“Of course; I get it; I’m just—thank you!” he gushed.  “I swear you won’t be sorry!”

 

Steve sighed again.  “I’m sorry already,” he murmured to Sam, who smothered a chuckle.  Steve looked around the bar and led the way to an open table.  They sat and he gave Ben his attention.  “You have five minutes.”

 

Ben looked overwhelmed for about three seconds, before taking a deep breath and starting in on his proposal.

 

“Of course propaganda’s purpose during the Second World War was influencing public opinion of the war to keep morale and support of the war high in the American population as well as certain behaviors buying war bonds for example and also propaganda was directed at the troops for educational health and morale purposes so like I said before I’m exploring your reputation before Azzano and after both at home and with the troops and the portrayal of the Howling Commandos in the propaganda created for the home front and that produced for Allied troops in the European theater and how they were the same and how they differed with an emphasis on the deliberate and unprecedented racial ethnic and cultural diversity of the Howling Commandos—“ 

 

Steve raised his hands to stop him.  “Slow down, son.”  Sam hid another laugh behind a coughing fit.  “I’ll give you until my date arrives; at which point you are going away quietly without a word.  Especially not anything about threesomes.  You are not ruining this date like you did the last one.”  He looked at his watch.  “But he won’t be here for another fifteen minutes. Go ahead and breath while you talk.”

 

Ben smiled gratefully, exhaled, and started over.

 

“What happened when General Phillips—then Colonel Phillips—allowed you to recruit whoever you wanted for the Howling Commandos:  that was unprecedented,” he said.  “Both that you would recruit British and French fighters along with Americans, and even more so African-Americans and Japanese-Americans, effectively creating the first desegregated American combat unit since 1812.”  He took a deep breath before continuing.

“And the thing was:  they couldn’t hide it.  An elite squad tasked with eliminating Hydra?  That didn’t need to make waves.  They could have done whatever they wanted with the Howling Commandos. If they didn’t publicize it, the general public wouldn’t know a thing.  But the Howling Commandos led by Captain America? You were already so well known and loved at home, and the Army was quick to jump on that popularity by publicizing the rescue of the 107th the way it did.  They were still thinking about you in terms of propaganda.  But the SSR was serious about taking on Hydra, and with Colonel Phillips giving you free rein over the makeup of the Howling Commandos…The American public wanted to see Captain America in action, and that meant seeing the Howling Commandos, too.  In particular, Gabe Jones and Jim Morita, both on your most elite squad and on occasion leading missions in which they commanded white soldiers—it caused a stir, Cap.” Ben’s face was animated.

 

“If you want to know about the propaganda films, I can’t help much,” Steve said.  “I didn’t see any footage from the Howling Commandos until—well, a few years ago. They’d come out, film, then leave to do the editing and sound.  I wasn’t in charge of that.  We did our thing and they did theirs.”

 

“The propagandists never tried to manipulate the scene?  Ask you to pose or rearrange your men?”

 

Steve opened his mouth to deny it, then stopped.

 

“You know, they did,” he said.  “The first time a film crew came with us on a mission, the director would say things like, ‘never mind us; do as you usually do; we want to capture the real grit of heroic battle’—which he wasn’t going to get because we never did anything but reconnaissance when we had those guys along.  Pretty tame reconnaissance at that. But we’d be sitting down to eat and he’d try to tell us where to go, because ‘the light was better;’ and now that I think about it, he usually tried to send Gabe or Jim on errands at the same time.  He wasn’t their commanding officer; I told them to ignore him as politely as they could. Finally I said he could film or not but my days as a traveling monkey were done.  He got us the way he got us; and the next time he tried to give one of my soldiers an order no matter how small, I was going to chuck his camera over a cliff.”

 

“Exactly,” Ben said excitedly.  “That’s the kind of attempted erasure I suspected, though it’s been hard to prove. Most of the people involved are dead or too infirm to be interviewed.  And it’s the kind of thing people try to hide.  Nobody likes to admit they participated. Cap, I can write my thesis without your help; and it’ll be fine.  Historians have to extrapolate and interpret all the time. That’s what we do. But if I had your testimony to draw on—it would make a real difference to have an eye witness, and such a central one at that.  Because it was groundbreaking.  It changed a lot.”

 

Steve sighed.  He leaned back in his chair and glanced at the door, like he’d been doing pretty much every thirty seconds while Ben was talking.  Hansen was just stepping inside.

 

He was wearing a black newsboy cap and car coat, which he took off and hung on the coatrack near the door.  Underneath he was wearing a gray suit with a white shirt and no tie. He looked good.

 

It was a nice suit.  It fit him really well.

 

He scanned the bar.  When his gaze met Steve’s, the corner of his mouth curled up and he began to walk towards them.

 

Steve turned to Ben.  “Do you have a pen?”

 

“Sure,” Ben took a pen out of his messenger bag and handed it to Steve. Steve scrawled his email address on a napkin and gave it to Ben.  “You can email me.  Now go away. My date’s here.”

 

Ben opened his mouth like he wanted to protest before nodding resignedly.

 

“Thanks, Cap,” he said.  “I appreciate it.”

 

“No problem,” Steve said as he stood.  He was already watching Hansen approach again.  Ben’s eyes tracked his.

 

“Oh, yeah; that guy,” Ben said.  Then it sunk in.  “Okay, yeah, I’m out of here, Cap; sorry about that and thanks you don’t know what this means to me—“  He slung the strap of his messenger bag around his shoulder.  In his hurry, a couple books and a spiral fell out. “Okay, sorry; I got it—“

 

Steve sighed and shook his head.  Hansen had already seen Ben.  Ben scooped up his things and turned and saw Hansen standing a few feet away, frowning.  He winced.

 

“Sorry,” he told Hansen.  “I’m out of here; you don’t have to see me again; have a great date.”  He turned back to Steve.

 

“Goodbye, Ben,” Steve said pointedly.

 

“Right,” Ben said.  “Thanks, Cap. Nice to meet you, Sam; okay, I’m going.”  He hurried away.

 

Steve turned back to Hansen.  He didn’t say anything.  He wanted to look at him for a moment, enjoy it.  Hansen was smiling again, that knowing half smile; and his eyes were warm as he met Steve’s gaze.

 

“Hey,” Steve said.  “Nice suit.”

 

“I had a meeting,” Hansen said.  “And then a hot lunch date.  Gotta dress to impress.”  He stepped closer. “Good to see you, Brooklyn.”

 

Steve nodded.  He couldn’t look away.

 

Sam whistled and extended his hand.

 

“Sam Wilson,” he said.  “You must be the man.  Hansen.”

 

Steve winced.  “Sorry—Sam, Hansen; Hansen, this is my good friend Sam Wilson.”

 

Hansen took Sam’s hand and smiled widely.

 

“Nice to meet you, Sam Wilson,” he said.  He looked at the table.  “Looks like you haven’t eaten.”

 

“I wanted to wait for you,” Steve said.  “You want to sit down?  Can I get you a beer?”

 

Hansen shook his head as he sat in the chair Ben had recently vacated.

 

“Nah,” he said.  “I have a lot of work this afternoon.”  He paused so the hovering server could take their order.  After they’d ordered, he continued.  “So what was that about with Boy Stalker?”

 

Steve sighed.  “His doctorate. He’s not quite as crazy as he seems at first.  I’ll probably give him an interview, but I’d like to take a day or two to settle in. Maybe find a place to live. Call the VA about volunteering.”

 

“About that place to live,” Hansen said.  “I found you something.  I know it’s a little pushy; but you remember that about me, right? I’m kind of a pushy guy. My nephew has a studio apartment attached to the back of his duplex that he rents out, and it’s vacant. So I told him you’d take it for a few months.”

 

Steve frowned.  “You told him I’d take it?  I haven’t even seen it.”

 

“Yeah, I know,” Hansen said.  The corner of his mouth lifted in a wry smile.  “Pushy.”

 

“That’s one word for it,” Steve replied.  He sighed.  “Sam and I were going to look into that some this afternoon.  I’ll take a look at your nephew’s place; but no promises.  If I don’t like it, I’m not staying there.”  He paused.  “Is this nephew the veteran?  Dan?”

 

Hansen nodded.  “I think you’ll like him.  You’re both Army vets, so you’ve got that in common.  You’re both runners.  And he’s only a few years younger than you.”

 

“I’m gonna remind you that I’m ninety-five years old,” he said. “He’s got to be half a century younger than me.  It’s okay; I said I’d take a look.”  He raised an eyebrow.  “You sure it’s safe for me to meet your family?  Your sister’s not crazy about me.”

 

“Yeah, but Dan is sane,” Hansen said.  “Soph…I had a hard breakup a few years back, from a guy I’d been with a while.  Soph’s a little overprotective.  I talked to her.  She promised to behave herself.”

 

“If I’m renting a place from her son, I’m guessing she’ll be around some,” Steve said.  “That sounds uncomfortable.”

 

“The apartment has a separate entrance off the alley,” he said. “You’d probably never see her.”

 

Their food arrived then, and Steve dropped the subject.  He wasn’t thrilled with the situation, but it sounded like Dan was expecting him.  It wouldn’t hurt to take twenty minutes to stop by, and he didn’t have to take the place.

 

The rest of lunch was more comfortable.  The burger was as good as Steve remembered, and the conversation focused on Minneapolis’ good points—where Steve should take Sam during his limited time in the city.  After a bit of good-natured argument about who got the bill, Hansen paid and they stood to go.

 

There was an awkward moment on the sidewalk as they prepared to separate. Steve stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked on his feet a little. 

 

“You want to meet up for dinner?” he asked.  Immediately he regretted it.  For Pete’s sake, they’d just had lunch.  Hansen’s smile was amused.  Sam cleared his throat and wandered away to inspect the wall of the yoga studio.

 

His face hot, Steve exhaled and looked down at the sidewalk.

 

Hansen stepped closer and touched Steve’s elbow.

 

“Brooklyn,” he said in a low voice.  “Hey,” Hansen prodded.  “Up here.”

 

Steve looked up and smiled sheepishly.

 

“I’m a little nervous,” he confessed.  “And also bad at this.”

 

“You’re not doing so bad,” Hansen said.

 

“It’s different,” Steve said.  “Now I know.  It was easier before, when we were just a couple of guys talking. This—I don’t know how this goes. And it’s worse when I have time to think about things.  I do better jumping in with no time for worrying.  But this isn’t…”  He sighed again.  “Never have made it past the first date stage, really.”

 

Hansen’s eyes flickered to Steve’s mouth then back up to his eyes.

 

“Can I try something?” he asked.

 

Steve shrugged.

 

“You remember what I said to you after Mass at Saint Stephen’s?” Hansen asked. “When we were talking out on the steps?”

 

What had he said?  He gave him the book, and said he wanted to see him again, and…  Oh.

 

“Something about a raincheck,” Steve said.  His voice was hoarse.  Now he was doing it.  He met Hansen’s eyes, but then he looked at his mouth, then back up to his eyes. His breath was shallow and between the intent look in Hansen’s eyes and the tilt to his lips, Steve couldn’t decide where to focus.

 

“If you’re nervous because you’re anticipating when you do better jumping in, maybe we should be a little impulsive.  Get it out of the way.”

 

“Get it out of the way?” Steve asked. 

 

“Brooklyn,” Hansen said.  “Lick your lips.”

 

_Oh_. Steve inhaled sharply. The shock of want that hit him was starting to feel familiar.  He’d been feeling it a lot lately.  He looked at Hansen’s mouth again.  Did he want that?  Right here, right now?  In public like this?  He didn’t feel comfortable doing something like that in public.

 

He looked at Hansen’s eyes.

 

His mouth.

 

That shock in his chest grew.  Got sharper.

 

His eyes again.

 

He looked around.  Except for Sam, the street was empty.

 

He looked back at Hansen’s mouth and that warm, tight feeling spread a little more.  He’d been thinking about what it would be like to kiss Hansen for a long time.  He was sure thinking about it now.  He bit his lower lip.  It didn’t help.

 

He was so tired of waiting…

 

He licked his lips.

 

Hansen smiled—that smile that said, _I know things you don’t yet, but I plan to show you_.  He stepped closer, slid his hands to Steve’s waist, tilted his head, and kissed him.

 

His lips were soft and warm, the way Steve had imagined they would be. His beard pricked Steve’s lips, but it wasn’t bad.  It was kind of interesting.  Steve shifted so he could catch Hansen’s upper lip between his own and returned the kiss. It was…  He liked it.  He knew it was Hansen he was kissing.

 

It wasn’t so different from kissing a woman.  That clutch in his chest was spreading further through his body—he was at the same time vibrating and melting as Hansen kissed him, slow and gentle and sweet.

 

Hansen was good at this.  Steve could tell he was holding back, but it wasn’t like he was afraid he’d scare Steve off or wasn’t interested; more like he wasn’t in any hurry.  It was contagious. Steve could care less if they were on the sidewalk, and anyone passing by could see them.  He could have kissed Hansen forever.

 

Hansen pulled back too soon.  Steve might have whimpered a little and tried to follow him.

 

“Did that help?” Hansen asked huskily.

 

The corner of Steve’s mouth lifted.  “You have a pretty high opinion of yourself, thinking you can chase away the jitters with one kiss.”

 

“Maybe. But you’re the one who likes impulsive.  And listen to that sass.  It’s working.” He smiled.  “Admit it:  you want me to do it again.”

 

“Don’t get cocky,” Steve said.

 

“It’s way too late for that.  I have been unbearable for the past two weeks.”  He sighed.  “I am going to get fuck all done this afternoon.”  His eyes were still doing the thing—the flicker back and forth.  Eyes, mouth. Eyes, mouth.  “When does Sam leave on Saturday?”

 

“Afternoon,” Steve replied.  “Three, three-thirty, I think?”

 

“How about the two of you come over to my place Saturday morning for brunch?” Hansen said.  “He can continue his vetting process—not only subtler but much kinder and gentler than Stark, by the way; you can tell him I’m grateful.  I can show off a little in the kitchen.  Just relax and spend a little time together.”

 

“I’d like that,” Steve said.

 

“Good,” he smiled and pulled out his phone.  “Let me text you the address—and Dan’s, too—you are going to go see his apartment, right? It’s perfect for you. I’ll probably text you all day, because I’m going to be thinking about you for sure.  So you and Sam go over to Dan’s.  I’ll call to tell him you’re coming. Go out on your own for dinner, spend a little time just the two of you before he has to go back to DC. You and me—we don’t have to rush, okay?  We’ve got time. You can call me after you get back from dinner.  Tell me what you thought about Dan’s place and wherever you go for dinner.”

 

“Hansen,” Steve said.  “You’re pushing.”

 

“Who, me?” he said wryly.  His eyes grew intent and fell to Steve’s mouth again.  “I have to go to work, so I am walking away right now; because if I don’t get away from that gorgeous mouth, I _am_ going to kiss you again, and I’m not going to want to stop.”

 

“Who said anything about stopping?” Steve asked.  “Though maybe not on the street like this.”

 

“You are killing me,” Hansen groaned.  He paused.  “I’m glad you’re here.  Glad you decided to come.”

 

Steve nodded.  “Me too.”

 

Hansen sighed and pulled back.  He waved goodbye to Sam, turned, and walked away.

 

Steve watched for a few moments before he sighed and looked at Sam standing next to him.

 

“You were smoother when we met,” Sam said.  “Be glad you look like you do, because you have no moves.”

 

“I know,” Steve said, resigned.

 

“None. Zilch.  Zip.  Nada. I mean nothing.”

 

“I’m not disagreeing,” he said.  “I have no moves.”

 

“Now, your boy there,” Sam went on, “he has moves.  I got the feeling his moves have moves.”

 

“Great,” Steve said.  “He can make up for my lack with all of his stellar moves.”

 

“He likes you though,” Sam said.

 

Steve glanced sideways at him. 

 

“Yeah,” he said.  “I think so.”

 

“And you like him,” Sam said.

 

Steve nodded.

 

“Yeah,” he said.  “Yeah, I do.”

 

He liked that pushy guy a lot.

 

He took out his phone and searched for Dan’s address.  “Why don’t we go see this apartment his nephew’s renting?  That way, if I don’t like it, he and I have plenty of time to get the head-butting out of the way before Saturday.”

 

“Sure,” said Sam.  “I kinda hope you don’t like it, because I gotta tell you—it could be entertaining, watching the two of you argue.  It’s like you and Tony, but with sexual tension.”

 

“Please never mention me, Tony, and sexual anything in the same sentence again,” Steve said.  “Ever.”

 


	52. Settling In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was quite a wait, but at 6600 words, this chapter is three times the average chapter length for this fic. So I hope that makes up for it a bit!
> 
> Next chapter, we'll catch up with Bucky in New York. He's been causing some problems. As always...

***

_May 7 th_

Dan lived in a quiet neighborhood--not full of big, fancy places like some of the ones around the lakes, but a nice neighborhood.  Neatly kept places—a good neighborhood for families.  For a moment he wondered what kind of place Hansen had.  He guessed he'd find out Saturday.  Five years before, Steve would have been a little worried about feeling out of place, but exposure to Tony Stark's lifestyle had inured this particular poor Brooklyn kid some.

 

When they got to Dan's place, it was the smallest on the block--he thought it was the smallest he'd seen in the entire neighborhood.  It made sense, for a single guy.  He didn't need a big place.  He parked on the street in front of the tan stuccoed house, and he and Sam got off his bike.

 

"Brrr," Sam shivered exaggeratedly.  “How is it so cold here in May?  I don't know how you stood riding that thing around in March.  It had to be miserable.  When you called to ask me to come to San Francisco, the cherry trees in DC had just finished blooming.  And that's late for them.  Here it’s still muddy from the snow.”

 

"It’s done melting,” Steve said.  "I bet the mud will be gone in a week."  He gestured to the neighboring yards.  "There's tulips, and those shrubs with the purple…  It's pretty."

 

"Those ‘shrubs with the purple’ are lilacs,” Sam said, as they started up the walk to Dan's front door.  “You might have heard of them?”

 

Steve shrugged.  "I'm a big city boy."

 

Sam snorted at him.  "I grew up in Harlem, Cap.  That’s not an excuse."

 

Steve laughed at him and knocked on the brick red door.

 

"Thanks for pointing out the holes in my education," he said.  "I'll get a horticultural encyclopedia or something."

 

The door opened, and Steve turned to face the man at the door.  If this was Dan the veteran, he was in his early twenties, but he looked like he was barely out of high school to Steve.  He was short and slight, with dark brown hair and eyes.  Steve looked for a resemblance to Hansen.  His coloring, sure… There was some there, in the shape of his eyes, maybe.  Otherwise he didn't look much like him.

 

"Steve?" he said, looking between Steve and Sam.

 

Looked like Hansen hadn't said much about him.

 

"I'm Steve," he said.  "This is my friend Sam Wilson.”

 

"Dan Peterson,” he said.  “Come on in.”  He stepped out of the doorway to give them room to enter the house. There was a low bench against the wall of the entry way with a couple pairs of shoes tucked beneath it. Dan offered his hand first to Steve, then Sam.  “Great to meet you. Any friend of Uncle Carmine and all that.”

 

“Uncle Carmine?” Steve asked.

 

The corner of Dan’s mouth lifted wryly.  It wasn’t so much a smile as an acknowledgement that he should be smiling.

 

“Sorry,” he said.  “Hansen, outside the family.  Half the time I forget. We don’t see much of his personal life.”

 

“I don’t know if you should date a guy who doesn’t tell you his name,” Sam said. Only the tiny crinkles by his eyes suggested he was joking.  “On the other hand, if my name was Carmine, I might go by my last name, too.”

 

Steve shot Sam a withering look before turning back to Dan.

 

“Hansen said you’re a vet,” he said.  “Me and Sam too.  Army and Air Force, respectively.”

 

Dan nodded. “I was Sixth Marine Regiment for three years.  Got out in 2013.” He grimaced.  “Well, not so much got out as got sent home on medical discharge.”

 

“Yeah?” Sam asked.  He was good at that. With one word, he gave Dan the option of saying more or not—whatever Dan was comfortable with, no judgement. It was a big part of what had led Steve to trust him.  Was that a skill he developed through his work or one he’d had beforehand?

 

Probably before.  It was so quintessentially Sam, to know what to say.  When to leave it open; when to say more himself or shut up.  It was one of the things he liked best about Sam.

 

Actually, he had a list about a hundred items long of the things he liked best about Sam Wilson.  His mouth quirked. Not that he needed it now, but it was a shame Sam never got around to making that exception.

 

He shook off the thought and turned his attention back to their host.  Dan was pulling up the leg of his jeans to reveal a prosthetic.

 

“IED,” he said. “Got both my legs, just below the knee.”

 

Steve shook his head.

 

“Hansen said you were a runner,” he said.  “He didn’t mention your injuries.  That’s pretty impressive.  Running again, I mean.  After.”

 

“It was that or go nuts,” Dan said.  “You hate it and you love it, you know?  There’s no going back out like this, but I didn’t want to come home.”

 

“It’s not easy,” Sam said.

 

“Bed’s too soft,” Steve added.  Sam smiled at him.  For a long moment, they were silent, letting that shared experience surround them.  Then Dan scrubbed a hand through his hair and sighed.

 

“It’s better now,” he said.  “Follow me; we can go this way to the back.”  He led them through his house.  It was pretty sparsely furnished, and a good chunk of what furniture there was looked secondhand; but there was some great photography on the walls. Black and white, mostly; but there was a color portrait in the dining room of Hansen, Hansen’s sister, and an elderly woman who must be their mother.  Steve stopped for a moment to look at it.

 

They were in a garden, Hansen and his sister sitting next to each other, their mother standing behind them.  The lawn was green, but the leaves on the trees and scattered on the grass were a mix of brown and fall’s vibrant reds and oranges.  Hansen’s sister was smiling at something slightly to the left of the camera, while an amused Hansen looked directly at the photographer with his eyebrows raised and a tilted smile.  Their mother—Dan’s grandmother—was outright laughing, one hand on Hansen’s shoulder, one at her chest, leaning back.  Her wide smile was beautiful.  Her face reminded him of Peggy’s aged face: not so much in her features, but in the way her skin sat on it—beautiful bones showing despite her age.  She must have been a knockout when she was younger.

 

“Hang on,” he heard Sam say.  “We lost him.”

 

Steve looked up to see Sam and Dan waiting for him in the archway between the kitchen and dining room.  He gestured to the photograph.

 

“This is great,” he said.  “I don’t know your mother or your grandmother well enough to say, but that’s Hansen right there. And all three of them—they just look right.”

 

“Thanks,” Dan said.

 

“Where are you?” Sam asked.

 

“Taking the picture,” Dan replied with a smile—the first smile they’d seen from him.

 

Sam raised an impressed eyebrow.

 

“You’re good,” he said.

 

“I get by,” Dan said.

 

“Professional?” Steve asked.

 

Dan nodded. “It was a hobby before, and when I got back I took it up again.  Another do something or go crazy thing—I had a lot of those.  It just sort of happened.  I had a friend who couldn’t afford a photographer, so I took the pictures at her wedding, and…”  He shrugged.  “One of her friends called me a couple months later for her wedding. Next thing I knew I was busy every weekend for the next six months.”  He looked intently at Steve.  “Uncle Carmine said that was something we had in common—that you liked art, I mean.  Not necessarily photography, but that you were picking up your pencils again after some time away.”

 

Steve grimaced slightly.  Looked like Hansen had left this to Steve.  It was nice, actually, after how upset he’d been that Steve hadn’t told him who he was; but it was going to be awkward.

 

“I had a couple years of art school, but I haven’t done much with it.  Used to do some sketching for comics, but that’s it,” he said.  “Two weeks ago, I hadn’t taken much more than a selfie, but we just got back from a photographers’ tour down the Grand Canyon, so I’ve had an introduction to it. I’m not about to turn pro or anything. Just have a better appreciation of how hard it can be to take a good picture.  Especially a picture that shows people’s souls like that.”

 

Dan nodded and looked at Sam.

 

“So are you a performance artist or something?” he asked.  “’Cause then we would be the strangest collection of vets:  a jarhead, a flyboy, and a grunt, artists every one of ‘em.”

 

Sam laughed.

 

“I’m a counselor with the VA,” he said.  “Hadn’t done much photography in quite a while before we took that trip. I’m thinking about keeping it up; I forgot how much I liked it.  But it’s a hobby.”  He tilted his head towards the portrait.  “That—Steve’s right; it’s hard to take a photograph that captures personalities like that.”

 

“I’m not really an artist, either,” Steve said.  He took a deep breath and held his hand out.  “Steve Rogers.  And I prefer G.I.; grunt’s past my time.”

 

Dan shook his hand again with a puzzled look on his face.  He frowned at Steve for half a minute, blinked twice, then started to laugh.

 

“Holy shit!” he said.  “Oh my God, Uncle Carmine’s dating Captain America.”  He laughed again.  “No, sorry, I know—it’s not you, I promise!  Just—I don’t know how well you know Uncle Carmine? He just—“  He stopped until his laughter was more under control. “He’s, umm, how to say this…”

 

“He’s a player,” Sam said.

 

“What does that mean?” Steve asked.

 

“Yeah,” Dan said.  “Not that he’s never had a relationship or anything, but…”  He snorted.  “And he definitely likes ‘em younger.  Well, as far as we know.  Haven’t met anybody in a long time.”  He laughed again. “So I was surprised when he asked me if I’d found a renter for the apartment, you know?  ‘Cause it’s strange that Uncle Carmine would even introduce us, much less suggest this guy he likes might want the studio above the garage for the summer.  When I answered the door, I thought, ‘well, okay, not many guys are that pretty; no wonder he’s trying to keep this one around.’  And all the time, I’m thinking you’re another one of his younger guys.  And this time, you could make a serious argument that he’s the baby in the relationship! And…Captain _America_? I was expecting a broke twink pretending to be an artist, and you are pretty much the opposite of that. It’s too much.”

 

“How long?” Steve asked.

 

“Oh, man—three, four years?” Dan said.  “He and Richard broke up while I was in Afghanistan.  And I don’t know if this happened to you when you got out? But after the second friend whose significant other I asked about wasn’t with them anymore, I stopped asking.  So when I went over to his house and it was obvious Richard wasn’t living with him… I don’t exactly know what happened.  And then, I’m only a quarter Italian-American.  The Norwegian side likes to pretend you can smile and ignore that shit and it’ll go away.”  He sobered enough to look earnestly at Steve.

 

“You and Uncle Carmine didn’t meet all that long ago,” he said.  “I probably should have kept my mouth shut and let him tell you about it.  I blame the shock.” He laughed again. “It’s not every day you learn your uncle’s dating Captain America, or even just a guy—what, _forty_ years? older than him.  Shit. I put my foot in it, didn’t I. Sorry.”

 

Wow. That was a lot to think about. But it was a good sign that Hansen had dated someone seriously, even if he’d been dating around for a while since then.  He knew what Steve was hoping for.  If that wasn’t something he wanted, Hansen could have said so.  He wasn’t the kind of guy to keep quiet about it.

 

And Steve needed to find out what a “player” was.  “Twink,” too, while he was at it.

 

Dan was starting to look worried.  Steve shook off his preoccupation.

 

“I told him I was the older one, but I’m not sure he believes it,” he said. After a moment, he added, “Just for the record, I’m not out yet. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep it to yourself for a while.”

 

Dan nodded. “Not my business.” He jerked his head towards the back of the house.  “You ready to see the place?”

 

“Lead the way,” Steve said.

 

Dan took them through the kitchen and out the door into a tiny mudroom. He gestured at the narrow stairway down to a basement.

 

“Laundry’s down there, and a storage room if you need it,” he said.  “The apartment is on the other side of the yard.” Steve wasn’t sure the postage stamp of grass bordered by shrubs was big enough to call a yard instead of a garden, but he didn’t comment.

 

“You’re going to take this place unless there are rats, aren’t you?” Sam murmured as they followed Dan outside.

 

“Even if it does,” he replied with a smile.  He was.  He liked the neighborhood, and he liked Dan, and if the apartment were as well-kept as the house, it would be a great place to live.  “I grew up in Brooklyn in the twenties.  Rats make great pets.  Easy to take care of.  Happy to eat leftovers and garbage.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam said.  “That when you walked five miles through the snow to get to school, uphill both ways? My grandpa used to talk like that.”

 

Steve sighed and shook his head.  “Kids these days.”

 

Sam laughed and bumped his shoulder.

 

The garage siding was painted the same tan color as the house.  There was a staircase tucked behind some slim pine trees that went up to the apartment above.  Dan led them up the stairs, unlocked the door, and waved them in.

 

It was a big room, freshly painted a soft white, with windows on three of the walls, so the light was good.  The pine floors were a little scratched up, but Steve could live with that.  The queen-sized bed against the far wall had a pretty green quilt and half a dozen pillows on it.  A darker green sofa, Shaker-style coffee table, and braided rag rug delineated a sitting area by the windows.  No tv, but Steve could get by without one.  The bed and the sofa were too big for the space, maybe; but the kitchen table was only big enough for two chairs.  It worked out.

 

Along the windowless wall to their left, there was a compact kitchen with clean white cabinets and appliances, and a door on the far side.  Steve went to poke his head in.  It was a small bathroom, tiled floor to ceiling in white tiles like the kitchen backsplash.

 

“It looks nice,” he told Dan.  “Clean. Bigger than I thought it would be. I didn’t think it would be furnished, either; but that’s good for me.  I won’t have to buy anything or have my furniture shipped from New York.”

 

“That’s what Uncle Carmine thought,” Dan said.  “It’s his furniture.”

 

Sam’s eyebrows went up.  “‘Uncle Carmine’ likes to arrange things.”

 

“Oh yeah,” Dan agreed.  “Some of it’s from that Italian Man of the Family thing—Grandpa died eight years ago; but he had early onset Alzheimer’s, so he wasn’t all there for a while before that. And he’s the oldest, so he gets that bossiness…but some of it is just the way he is.  He likes to make things fit, you know? Putting puzzles together, figuring out the best way to do something…  It’s what makes him such a good architect.  It can be a bit much when he gets in your business, though.” He paused.  “I don’t want to scare you off him; but if you can’t deal with that, better you know it now, right?  ‘Cause he’s going to arrange things the way he thinks is best.”

 

“I think I can hold my own,” Steve said.

 

“Better than some freeloading twink, I’m guessing,” Dan said.

 

“Is one of you gonna tell me what a twink is, or am I gonna have to look it up on Urban Dictionary?” Steve asked.

 

***

 

Hansen had said he'd be up late, so not to worry about what time Steve got back to him.  Steve hoped he meant it, because he and Sam lingered over their dinner of tapas until they were the only customers in the place.

 

“Do you go right back to work on Monday?” Steve asked over sangria and the _Plato Iberico_ : Serrano ham, a couple types of Spanish sausage, olives, and chorizo.

 

Sam shook his head as he snagged an olive.

 

“I took a leave of absence,” he said.  “I’m thinking about my options.”

 

Steve frowned. “I thought you took vacation time.”

 

“Didn’t know how long I’d be gone,” Sam replied.  “I took a couple days sick leave, then called from San Francisco after I had a better idea what I was getting into and told them I was going to need a month, maybe more.  I’ll call on Monday to ask if they want me to come back before my month’s up, but I’ve been thinking about making some changes.  Seems like this is a good time to look into it.”

 

“You thinking about leaving the VA?” Steve asked.  “I thought you loved it.  You’re good at it.  Really good at it.”

 

“I’m thinking about moving back home,” Sam said.  “There’s VA offices everywhere.  I can transfer pretty easy.”

 

“Home meaning Harlem?” Steve asked.  “You’re not doing this ‘cause you think I need a keeper, are you?  I’ve uprooted your life enough.”

 

“It’s not all of it, but proximity to you is a plus,” Sam said with a smile. “I figure you owe me a solid. I have plans that involve you being my wingman for the rest of your days.”

 

Steve snorted. “What happened to ‘you have no moves?’” he asked.  “Cause I don’t think it’s been eight hours since you said that.”  He made a show of checking the time. “Nope.  Not quite eight hours yet.”

 

“When you’re not flirting for yourself, you’re fine,” Sam said.  “If you suck at it, you can wear the suit. That’ll work too.” He smiled and stole the last piece of ham before Steve could.  “I want to be close to my mama, too—this last year’s been rough for her. Seeing the Triskelion coverage gave her a heart attack.” He leaned back and smiled.  “I figure it’s the best of both worlds: Friday night you buy me a beer, lose to me at darts, and talk me up to New York’s prettiest ladies; and Sunday evening Mama spoils me with fried chicken dinner and cheese grits and collard greens on the side.  And Tony Stark to upgrade my wings twice a year.”

 

“You might have trouble getting them back,” Steve said.  “Tony never finishes tinkering.”  He took a bite of ham and washed it down with the last of the sangria. “It doesn’t feel real. Two months ago, I had no idea how to fix what was wrong in my life.  I didn’t have any of this.  It’s not all sunny skies, but…life’s a lot different now.  It’s gonna be better.  So thanks.  For all of it.”

 

“Anytime,” Sam said.  “Just say the word.” He smacked Steve’s hand away from the last couple bites of sausage and waved the waiter over for the bill before looking at Steve again.  “This goes both ways, Cap.  I get a lot out of this friendship too.”

 

“That’s ‘cause you’re a saint,” Steve said.  “Nobody else could put up with me and Tony the way you did.”

 

“When I apply for a transfer to the New York VA, I’ll have you write me a reference,” Sam said.

 

***

 

Saturday morning was clear and a little cool, but sunny enough to warm up quickly. The drive from their downtown hotel to Hansen’s place was about fifteen minutes—ten minutes of freeway, then another five minutes or so of circling three-quarters of the way around Cedar Lake, the northernmost of west Minneapolis’ “Chain of Lakes.”  Sam and Steve arrived at Hansen’s house a little before ten thirty.  Since it was right at the corner of Hansen’s street, Steve stopped for a minute to admire the Frieda and Henry J. Neils House.

 

“Eh,” Sam said.

 

“You don’t think it’s interesting?” Steve asked.  “Frank Lloyd Wright designed that house.”

 

“I’m not a fan of that how-low-can-you-go ranch style,” Sam said.  “The stone’s nice.”

 

“I saw a few of his houses when I was in Chicago,” Steve said.  “I like them.  Lots of wood and stone, and a nice attention to detail, and artisanship…I don’t see as much of that in modern houses. The ceilings were pretty low, though.  I couldn’t live in one without constantly hitting my head.”

 

“You’re all ‘sonny, back in my day’ ever since we got to Minneapolis,” Sam said. “Something on your mind?”

 

Steve shrugged.

 

“Come on,” Sam said.  “Let’s hear it.”

 

He grimaced. “Nervous, I guess. What if this is a terrible idea?”

 

“Then you take the next plane to DC and help me pack,” Sam said.  “It’s okay.  You’re trying something new, and that can be scary. You know we got your back.”

 

“I’ve jumped out of planes without a parachute on a regular basis,” Steve replied. “I’ve fought space aliens.”

 

“Different kind of thing, though, isn’t it?” Sam said.

 

Reluctantly Steve nodded.

 

“Just seems stupid,” he said.  “To be nervous about this.  I’m moving here for a few months so I can date this guy I like.  Perfectly nice guy.  I like him a lot.”  He sighed. “I don’t know. He didn’t used to make me nervous.”

 

“So what’s that about?” Sam asked.

 

“I don’t know,” Steve said.

 

Yeah, that was a lie.  He knew. Before, he could want Hansen all he liked without consequence.  It was theoretical.  Now…

 

Now he could touch.  And it wasn’t easy to set aside the things he’d grown up believing.  He might think wanting a man was okay, but there was still a part of him that got jittery thinking about it.  That worried that the church was right, and he was taking a sinful path.

 

He was going to grit his teeth and ignore that feeling.  It was a leftover remnant of a child’s faith, and sometimes the church had been wrong in the past.  Was still wrong about some things, and this was one of them.

 

The other part of it was wanting someone he was going to be able to touch. He’d wanted Bucky and Peggy, but they’d both been off limits.

 

Hansen wasn’t.

 

“I do know,” he told Sam.  “That you got my back, I mean.”

 

“All right then,” Sam said.  “Now let’s see if your boy’s house is more on the ‘hey, nice place’ side, or more on the multimillion dollar mansion side.”

 

“It’s three houses down,” he said.  “Why don’t we walk it?”  Sam nodded, and they got off his bike and began to walk down the quiet street.

 

It was hard to tell much about Hansen’s place from the street.  There was a walkway to the left of a two car garage, but the rest of the house was hidden in the trees.  Steve parked his bike and they followed the walkway past the garage to a shady stone courtyard entrance.  It was nice, but it was cozy rather than grand. The house was built of a creamy yellow stone and wood shingles painted to match.

 

“It’s on the lake, but it’s not showy,” Steve said.  “I think it’s that first one:  ‘hey, nice place.’”  He paused to look around.  “Yeah. Nice but not ritzy.” He squared his shoulders and knocked on the door.

 

Hansen was already smiling when he opened the door, and his smile widened when he saw them. He was wearing jeans and a dark gray button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up.  His feet were bare.  He looked good.  Comfortable and at home.

 

“ _Benvenuto alla mia sede_ ,” he said.

 

Steve wondered if Hansen’s Italian was limited to a handful of words and phrases or if he was fluent.  Steve had picked up what he could during the war, but he’d never systematically studied the language.  He understood enough to handle this, at least.

 

“ _Grazie per averci invitato_ ,” he replied.  “ _Avete di una bella casa_.” He held out the artisan chocolate he’d found at a gourmet shop across the river from their hotel. He’d seen it on a run his first time in the city—the store’s facade was an attention-grabbing metal wall. He’d made a point of finding it again the day before, and vaguely remembered that Italians liked guests to bring chocolate or flowers instead of wine.

 

And he wasn’t bringing Hansen flowers, so…chocolate it was.

 

Pretty pricy chocolate, too.  It was expensive even by modern standards, but Hansen hadn’t blinked at the cost of their first dinner together.  Gourmet chocolate wasn’t going to overwhelm him.

 

Mast Brothers’ flagship store and their factory were in Brooklyn, too. That was hard to resist.

 

Hansen’s eyes flared hot.  Rather than taking the chocolate, he pulled Steve into the house by his wrist.

 

“I thought you didn’t go to college,” he said. “That is not the accent of somebody who learned Italian on the streets of Brooklyn.”

 

“Picked it up while I was there during the war,” Steve said.  “Something wrong with my accent?”

 

Hansen took the chocolate and set it on the nearby console table, then reeled Steve close.

 

“Not a damn thing,” he said, and reached up to grasp Steve’s nape and pull him in for a kiss. Steve fell into it. Kissing Hansen… He loved it.  Was it just Hansen, or because it was new, or was he always going to react like that?  When Hansen finally broke away, they were both breathing a little fast.

 

“How the hell are you so perfect?” he whispered against Steve’s lips.  Steve laughed and shook his head.  The last thing he was was perfect.

 

“You are,” Hansen said, and stepped away to welcome Sam.

 

“Sorry, Sam,” he said.  “I’m a terrible host. Please come in. My house is your house.”

 

Sam laughed and shook his hand.

 

“Good to see you again,” he said.  “You mind waiting until I leave to try a chocolate bar?  Because if that’s the reaction a couple sentences of Italian gets, you might need some privacy for that.” He turned to Steve.

 

“You know that thing we were talking about on the street?” Sam asked. “I’m thinking you guessed wrong.”

 

Steve hadn’t noticed anything but Hansen, but now he looked around. The walls were painted white. The entry floor was stone, and the hall to the rest of the house had polished hardwood floors. At the end of the hall there was a simple bronze figure and multiple pieces of art were hung on the walls. Other than the console table and one chair, there was no furniture; but how much furniture did an entry need? Maybe a coat rack—but one would be out of place here.

 

“Yeah,” he agreed.  Steve looked curiously at Hansen.  “I thought you said you weren’t an art guy.”

 

“I’m not,” he replied.  “A colleague helped me choose most of this.  Don’t get me wrong; I like it; but she has an eye for it, and I don’t. Since we tend to do all the entertaining for work out here, it has to look good.  Classier than I actually am.”

 

“Sounds like Tony and Pepper,” Steve said.  “Pepper and I talked about it a lot when we first met.  When she was his personal assistant, she was in charge of building a Stark Industries art collection.  Tony didn’t care about it, and Pepper loves art, so. Then five years ago when he thought he was dying, he gave it away.  She was furious.”

 

“Aren’t they together?” Hansen asked.

 

“Yeah, she forgave him,” Steve said.  “She loves him.  She’s still pretty mad about losing that collection, though.”

 

Hansen laughed.

 

“I hope you’re hungry,” he said as he led them through the house to the kitchen. “I might have gone a little overboard.”

 

The round breakfast table was perfectly reasonable.  It was set in a nook on the far side of the kitchen, by the windows that overlooked the lawn that sloped gently down to the lakeshore.   Three places were already set.

 

The kitchen itself was a little over the top—not for the white countertops or floor to ceiling birch cupboards; but the island in the middle looked more like an altar than a workspace to Steve, and any kitchen with a fireplace was automatically ridiculous in his view.

 

And the low counter separating the kitchen from the big dining and living space was covered with enough food for eight people instead of three.  He caught Hansen’s eye and  raised an eyebrow.  Hansen gave him an embarrassed shrug.

 

“We want to eat the _nido di polenta con uovo_ right when it comes out of the oven,” he said, “so I didn’t put it in yet.  I’ll make lattes while it bakes, and you can serve yourselves from the rest.”

 

“ _Nido di polenta con_ what?” Sam asked.  Steve handed him a plate and served himself some caprese salad. There was a green salad too, and a salad of mixed berries, and a frittata of some kind, and chocolate croissants.  Plus orange juice and the _nido di polenta_ , apparently.

 

Steve took two croissants.

 

“Polenta nests with an egg in them and grated truffle on top,” Hansen said. “I’m gonna warn you that the yolk comes out runny, so if you’re not a fan, you probably want to stick to the _tortino campagnolo_.  Or I can quick scramble a couple eggs for you.”

 

“No thanks, I’ll try them,” Sam said.  He looked at Steve, who was serving himself some berries.  “Don’t take all the raspberries, man; that is just wrong.”

 

“My mother raised me better than that,” Steve said.

 

“You say that; but I see the ratio of raspberries to blackberries, blueberries, and strawberries on your plate, and it seems a little high,” Sam said.  He took the serving spoon away from Steve.

 

A few minutes later, all three of them were settled at the table, plates piled high.

 

“Did you learn to cook from your mom?” Steve asked Hansen.  He shook his head.

 

“Not really,” he said. “Basic things like pasta, and how to hard boil an egg, yes; but anything more complicated than that I learned from cookbooks or cooking classes.”  He paused to savor a bite of polenta and egg.  “Mama’s old-fashioned.  She thought I’d never need more than a bachelor’s way around the kitchen.  What did I need to know how to make?  My wife was gonna do the cooking.  She taught Soph more.”

 

“You knew pretty young that you liked guys, though,” Steve said.  “In college, right?”

 

“I knew before then,” Hansen said.  “But I came out to my family when I came home summer after my freshman year.” He sighed.  “And regretted it all summer, until school started up again in the fall.  Mama was not happy about it.”

 

“What about your dad?” Sam asked.

 

Hansen shrugged.  “He stayed out of it.  Theoretically, he was the head of the family; but for most things at home, Mama was the boss.”

 

Quiet settled over the table for a short time while they concentrated on their food. Hansen was a good cook. Everything was delicious. Steve wondered wistfully if he could talk Hansen into making him another _nido di polenta con uovo_. If he hadn’t been watching his manners, he’d have licked his ramekin clean.

 

After a minute, Hansen started the conversation again.

 

“Tell me about your day yesterday.”

 

“Went by the VA,” Steve replied.  “Talked to someone about ways I could volunteer.”

 

"What kind of thing will you do?" Hansen asked.

 

"Patient escort, mostly," Steve replied.  “Walking people to physical therapy.  Things like that.  And maybe assist with their art program.  I'm not sure I have enough expertise for that, but I'm interested in it."

 

"Really?" Hansen asked.  "Walking vets to their appointments?  Honestly, it seems like a waste.  You're Captain America--don't they have something more important for you to do?"

 

"Nope," Steve said.  "I'm doing this as Steve Rogers, not Captain America.  And I'd rather do patient escort than make copies or sit at a welcome desk.  This way, I get to talk to people."

 

"You might be surprised how big a difference something small like that can make," Sam said.  "Seeing somebody besides the docs, especially if you can do it for a while.  Making a little connection, sharing progress... Vets can get isolated from other people.  It'll be good for you, too."

 

"That's why I'm doing it," Steve said.

 

***

 

When it was time to catch his flight, Sam insisted on taking a taxi to the airport.

 

"I'm glad to take you,” Steve said.  “I’m not ready to say goodbye."

 

"There's no reason for you to take me," Sam said.  “You'll be coming right back here.  And I'm going to be back on Wednesday."

 

Steve shrugged helplessly.

 

"Don't know what I would have done without you," he said.  "You're the best, Sam."

 

Sam smiled and embraced him.  “Damn straight I am.”

 

And then the cab was there, and it was time.  Steve felt a little lost as he watched the cab drive away.

 

As they turned to go back into Hansen's house, Hansen slipped an arm around Steve's waist.  Steve gave him half a smile.

 

"Now what?" he asked.  “Can I help you clean up?” He tried a suggestive eyebrow waggle, but he wasn't sure it worked.  Hansen smiled in return, but his eyes weren't happy.

 

"I think we need to talk," he said.

 

"Already?" Steve asked.  "Isn't that usually what you say when you're breaking up with someone?"  He paused.  "This because I ate the last chocolate croissant?"

 

Hansen laughed and guided him over to the sofa.

 

"I don't have the metabolism for more than one of those," he said.  "You can burn three pan au chocolat off, go for it."  He held Steve's hand in his, and played gently with his fingers.  "This is another one of those things I feel like I gotta say because you have no experience dating, okay?  This is for you, not me."

 

Steve raised an eyebrow.  "You don't usually beat around the bush."

 

"I'm getting there," Hansen said with a mock glare.

 

"I'm listening," Steve said.

 

Hansen nodded, but he didn't say anything.

 

"Nervous?"

 

Hansen half-shrugged before lifting Steve's hand to his mouth.  His face was serious.  Between his kiss and his intent gaze, Steve couldn't look away.

 

"This thing we're doing," he said.  "This isn't exclusive.  If you meet someone else you want to go out with, you should do that."

 

"Are you kidding me?" Steve asked.

 

"Our first date was two days ago," Hansen replied.  "We've only known each other a couple months.  You're going pretty damn fast with this thing, Brooklyn.  I don't think you should have all this on me."  He sighed and shook his head.  "Look, I'm fifty-two years old.  If you don't count the time you were frozen, I've been dating longer you've been alive.  I've been doing this a while, and it's all so new to you...  You need to play the field a little."

 

"That's not what I want," Steve said.

 

"How many people have you even kissed?" Hansen said.  "Not counting family."

 

"Four," he said.  "Is there a quota?"

 

“See, that’s nothing,” Hansen said.  I’ve kissed more people during a game of Spin the Bottle.  And that’s as far as it’s gone for you. You don’t go from barely been kissed straight into a committed relationship.  There’s steps along the way.  I feel like I’m stealing something from you.  I’ve done all this shit, and you haven’t had a chance.”

 

“If I wanted meaningless sex, I could find it,” Steve said with growing exasperation. “I did.  On my trip.  I met a guy—it was crazy.  He begged me to let him give me a blowjob.  But it was a mistake.  I don’t plan to do it again.”

 

Hansen’s eyebrows went up.

 

“Yeah,” he said.  “No strings? You should have more of those. I want to hear the story. Where did you meet this guy?”

 

“It was a less than impressive experience and would make a terrible story,” Steve said, frowning.  “He didn’t even finish.” 

 

“It just proves what I’m saying,” Hansen said.  “You can’t settle down with the first guy who shows interest. Maybe I’m it for you, but how are you going to judge when I’m the only guy you’ve ever dated?”

 

“How about you let me decide what I want to do?” Steve asked.

 

“Trust me, okay?" Hansen said.  “You don’t have to put up a Grindr profile, but the two of us—you moving here is a huge commitment already.  I think we need to go back to baby steps.”

 

Steve huffed.  Hansen could see other guys if he wanted.  Steve had no intention of dating anyone else, but there wasn't any point in arguing about it.  They were both too stubborn.

 

And he was right about how big a step moving to Minneapolis for the summer was. That part made sense.

 

"Fine," he said.  "You want to be able to date around, we can do that for now.  But sooner or later we're gonna revisit this issue."

 

One thing that was clear:  he and Hansen saw all of it—sex, dating, committing to someone—pretty differently.  He didn't understand why Hansen thought it was important to date a lot of people.  But for now, he guessed this was the way it was going to be.

 

Hansen smiled wryly at him.  He leaned back against the sofa and pulled Steve close.

 

“Another thing I want to talk about,” he said.

 

Steve looked at him guardedly.

 

“I’ve got this idea about taking it slow,” Hansen continued. “I mean:  there’s stages people go through.  Having kissed a few people—I rate that about age thirteen.  Maybe we could start there and work up to things.  Otherwise, we’ll go too fast for you.  And we shouldn’t skip steps.  Jumping straight from a couple kisses to a blowjob—what happened to second base?”

 

Steve’s mouth twitched.

 

“So you’re saying we should hold off on the blowjobs, but we can kiss all we like?” he asked.

 

“That’s what I’m saying,” Hansen said.  “Maybe take our shirts off before we get into each other’s pants.”

 

Steve laughed.  “This plan, I like.” He kissed Hansen, slow and sweet, and Hansen wrapped his arms around him and pulled him down on top of him and opened his mouth to Steve’s.  “A while ago a friend told me I needed practice,” he whispered as he traced Hansen’s jaw down to his neck.

 

“Nah,” Hansen replied.  He tilted his head back to give Steve access to the sensitive skin under his chin. “You’re just— _hmm_ —behind on your quota.”  He turned his head and nipped Steve’s earlobe.  “We got this.”

 

“Yeah,” Steve murmured.  “Yeah, I’m good with this.”  He arched against Hansen and let everything else go.  In less than twenty-four hours, he’d be on his way to New York for his first Dignity meeting, his first session with a psychiatrist… He’d see Tony and the rest of the Avengers again.  It was likely he’d see Barnes.  He’d made some decisions, and he was a little nervous about how those would play out.

 

But that was tomorrow.  At this moment, he was right where he wanted to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll put the links up when I'm at home with my computer instead of my ipad, BUT. If you want to scoot over to tumblr, I posted a few things related to this chapter:
> 
> •a listing for the house I used as inspiration for Hansen's house. Yes, it is for sale. Yes, it's listed for nearly 4 million dollars U.S.
> 
> •a link to Brooklyn based Mast Brothers Chocolate
> 
> •a link to an article about Stanley Tucci's love of cooking (he's written two Italian cookbooks!)
> 
> •coming up: Hansen's menu, complete with pics and recipe links...


	53. Cleaning Up

***

_April 23 rd_

The Winter Soldier was no stranger to solo missions or wet work, but this job had been tedious from the beginning.  It had to be done; but he wished he had someone to help him complete the task.  He wasn’t an Avenger, but he’d become accustomed to the idea that he wasn’t alone any more. He was connected.

Though the Avenger’s reaction to the conflict with Steve Rogers proved that he wasn’t, not really.  He lived and worked with the Avengers, but he remained apart. 

With Buck gone, he was alone even in his head now.  Bucky had been born that way, but the Winter Soldier had not.  He had never lived without the other alters.  There was an absence where Buck should be.  He had never realized how incomplete he would feel without the others. 

What would it be like if Bucky disappeared into the depths as well, instead of hiding in his oubliette? 

He shook his head.  He didn’t understand Bucky.  If he found their life intolerable, why had he never gone deep the way Buck had? 

It wouldn’t seem as empty if he could communicate with Bucky. But Bucky fled from even his most neutral attention, and he hated this sort of clean up—at least, the Winter Soldier presumed that was why he’d reacted the way he had to the first decapitation.  Buck had insulated Bucky from those things.  The Winter Soldier had seen and done far worse.  It could be children.  Or his allies.  He could think of several bloodier methods of communicating what had to be said. This didn’t seem bad to him, just boring. 

But Buck wasn’t there; and in his rime-edged oubliette, Bucky trembled and wouldn’t speak.  The Winter Soldier was on his own. 

What would happen if he tried to search for Buck?  How would he even do so?  The Winter Soldier had never ventured to those depths. He hadn’t known it was possible. And he suspected the deep terrain of his mind might not welcome the Winter Soldier. 

If he did sink that far to find Buck, what would happen to their body? Without an alter willing to direct their consciousness…Would Bucky be forced to the surface, or would he become comatose, completely vulnerable and unaware of it? 

He wouldn’t risk it. 

The Winter Soldier didn’t enjoy this mission, but he excelled at it. The logistics of it were a challenge, at least, even if the rest was tedious.  He had only an hour’s more work, and he would be done. 

He wiped the blood off his knife before sheathing it and wiped his hands uselessly on his saturated tac suit.  This was one of the sloppiest jobs he remembered.  He stunk of blood.  While Hydra hid, they had been limited to actions that wouldn’t expose them.  Perhaps others had missions like this.  The Winter Soldier had not.  He was an assassin, not a death squad. 

He wished he had a clean up crew.  He wished Tony Stark had seen sense.  But Stark didn’t seem to understand how pernicious Hydra was. The previous evening, when he had pressed for a timeline for eliminating Hydra’s remaining boltholes, Tony had said, “Give us another couple days.  We’re shorthanded.  I want to wait for Thor, and he’s coming on Saturday.” 

“In San Francisco, we agreed we would take care of Hydra within two days,” he’d replied. 

“Sorry. It’s not going to happen that fast,” Tony said.  “Clint is down for a while and according to your report, none of these boltholes are Hulk-friendly—“ 

“He could collapse one or two of them around him and push his way out of the rubble,” the Winter Soldier said. 

“Uh: no,” Tony replied. “You’re going to have to hold your horses, Lone Ranger.” 

The Winter Soldier had turned and left.  He would do what had to be done to make New York—and himself—safe from Hydra, with or without the Avengers. 

***

 

The Winter Soldier had finished his night’s work, returned to his apartment, and was studying a map of the five borough area when JARVIS spoke to him.

 

“Sir, Mister Stark is on his way to your floor,” he said.  “Miss Romanov and Mister Barton will be joining you as well.”

 

The Winter Soldier checked the time. Seven-ten a.m.  Later than he had thought it would be.

 

“Acknowledged,” he said.  He cleared the map and went into the living room to wait.

 

“—could take some damn initiative,” Stark was saying as he pushed open the door to his apartment.  He was wearing the Iron Man armor.

 

Did he expect the Winter Soldier to engage him?  He would defend himself if necessary, but Iron Man was an ally. The Winter Soldier wouldn’t initiate combat with him.

 

“Are you an AI or not?” Stark continued.  “Put some of that processing power to work, for God’s sake.”

 

“Yes, sir.”  JARVIS sounded subdued.

 

“I won’t attack you,” the Winter Soldier told Stark.

 

“Don’t tell me it didn’t occur to you that this would be relevant to the Avengers,” Stark glared at the Winter Soldier as he continued to address the AI.

 

“My apologies, sir,” JARVIS said.  “Of the directives written into my original programming, the one forbidding me to wake you when you have not requested a pre-set alarm is given utmost priority. Without guidance to the contrary, I did not realize this directive should be considered obsolete. I will remedy this coding error immediately.”

 

“I was nineteen years old when I wrote JARVIS’ code,” Stark rebuked. “I shouldn’t have to tell you that my life is different, and I don’t have time to go through your code line by line to update it!  What do you think will happen if you keep something like this from me when I’m Iron Man? Somebody’s going to end up hurt—or dead—because you decided not to bother me with petty details like mass murder!”

 

“They were Hydra,” the Winter Soldier said.

 

Stark threw his hands in the air.

 

“There were _sixty-two_ _decapitated heads_ found in Central Park between eleven-thirty last night and seven this morning!”  he shouted.  “If I thought NYPD could hold you, I’d turn you in this minute.”  As he spoke, Natasha entered, pushing Barton in a wheelchair. She stopped at a distance and positioned herself to defend Barton if necessary.  She was visibly armed.

 

“You weren’t prepared to act.  I wasn’t willing to wait,”the Winter Solder answered.  “And your plan was too moderate.  Hydra adherents only understand fear and intimidation.”

 

“Sixty-two decapitated heads!” Stark replied.  “I’m scared to ask what you did with the bodies.”

 

“Most I had to leave where they were,” he said.  “I was in a hurry.”

 

“Did I say I wanted to know?” Stark asked.  He shook his head and turned to Romanov and Barton.  “I don’t know what the hell we’re going to do with him, but there is no way he’s putting on Cap’s suit.  Not in a million years.”

 

“I wouldn’t do this as Captain America,” he said.  “This was the Winter Soldier.  I understand the difference.”

 

Stark just shook his head again.  Barton was frowning, and Natasha blank-faced.

 

“I’d like to speak with Buck,” she said, stepping closer, incidentally improving her position for defending Barton.

 

The Winter Soldier nodded, although he wasn’t certain Buck would emerge, even at Natasha’s request.  Nevertheless he relaxed his hold and waited.

 

Buck didn’t come up.

 

Was it possible to go so deep he couldn’t perceive what was happening outside himself?

 

_I’m yielding. Natasha wants to talk to you._

 

Nothing.

 

_When are you coming up_?

 

He pressed his lips together and looked at Natasha.  She crossed her arms and waited.

 

“He won’t come,” he told her reluctantly.  “I can’t find him.”

 

Stark rounded on him again.

 

“You can’t _find_ him?” he asked.  “He’s in your damn head!”

 

The Winter Soldier shook his head.  “He’s far down.”

 

“Keep looking,” Stark said.

 

“I think we’d better call Bruce,” Barton said.  He had wheeled himself closer, next to Natasha. She frowned at him but didn’t say anything, only shifted slightly to be ready to defend him again.

 

“You think he can hear this and not Hulk out?” Stark asked.  At last he retracted the helmet of his suit, and the Winter Soldier relaxed to stand at ease.  He wouldn’t have to fight his allies—not yet.

 

“He has better control than that,” Barton replied.  “And he’s going to find out eventually. This way we control the circumstances he learns it.  He’s the only one of us who knows anything about DID.”

 

“We should call his doctor,” Natasha suggested.  “Doctor-patient confidentiality doesn’t apply to this situation. We need advice.”

 

“Advice?” he asked.

 

“You’ve had your shot at rehabilitation,” Stark said.  “You’re going down.  Given the choice between the guy with the foul mouth who makes chicken soup and the quiet guy who kills sixty-two people in one night, I know who I want living under my roof.  If the other alters have abandoned ship and your doctor can’t get you out of James Barnes’ head, you need to be locked up.”

 

“Pardon me, sir,” JARVIS interjected.  “The number of heads found in Central Park is now sixty-eight.”

 

Barton whistled.  “You have to admit, that’s impressive.”  Stark turned his glare on him.

 

“How many did you eliminate?” Natasha asked.

 

“Eighty-one,” he said.

 

“So somewhere in Central Park, there are still thirteen heads NYPD hasn’t found yet,” Stark said disbelievingly.

 

That didn’t require an answer.  It was obvious.

 

“We need to tell Bruce,” Barton repeated.  “We can ask him to step into the Hulk-out room if you’re worried about it.”

 

“He’s right,” Natasha said.  “And you shouldn’t be there, Tony; you’re too worked up.  Why don’t you call James’ doctor, and I’ll talk to Bruce?  JARVIS, would you ask Doctor Banner to head to the Hulk-out room as soon as possible? I’ll meet him there.”

 

“Ask him to avoid the news until then,” Barton added.

 

“That’s not ominous,” Stark said.

 

Natasha turned to James.

 

“I don’t have a problem with you attacking Hydra,” she said.  “That’s likely to necessitate killing some of them, and I don’t have a problem with that either.  But the way you did this, and the grisly spectacle you’ve created… That was excessive. This city is going to be terrified.”

 

“I disagree,” he said.  “It was an unavoidable consequence of sending Hydra the message to stay out of New York.  Inform the police I did this, and was targeting Hydra members only.  The general public is safe.”

 

“Yeah, telling the people of New York that the notorious assassin the Winter Soldier is living in the heart of Manhattan is not reassuring,” Stark said. “Funny thing about law enforcement: they tend to take it personally when a guy admits he murdered a hundred people in one night.  The NYPD will try to take you in.”

 

“Eighty-one,” he said.

 

Stark crossed his arms.  “You’re supposed to be one of the good guys now, remember?  Did it never occur to you that this was wrong?  Not to mention gruesome?  Do you have any kind of moral compass? Or was that Buck’s job?”

 

He wasn’t sure how to explain to Stark.  He had believed the Avengers understood what he was.  He was certain Natasha did.  Had she hid it from Stark?

 

“I was trained for situational threat analysis and elimination,” he said. He grimaced.  Stark wouldn’t like the rest of his answer. “Morality isn’t relevant.”

 

“You have got to be kidding me,” Stark said.  His faceplate descended, and his armor whirred as he armed and aimed at the Winter Soldier.  “Are you going to the lockdown room in the basement like a good boy, or am I making you? Please say no. I really want to make you.”

 

“You’re not in danger from me,” he protested.  “This was _Hydra_.  My actions last night were aimed at Hydra, as a demonstration that the Winter Soldier is not under their control, that I take the security of this city seriously, and that I won’t allow Hydra infiltration.”

 

“That’s the Avengers’ job,” Stark said.  “We don’t need you putting your particular spin on the message. I’m more worried that you don’t get what the problem is.  It’s a good thing this happened before we let you out as faux-Cap. The Capsicle would never forgive any of us if you did this while pretending to be him.”

 

No. He had accepted Captain America’s mission.  They couldn’t take that from him.  In his oubliette, Bucky stirred.

 

“That wouldn’t happen,” he said.

 

“Do either of you have any idea how to explain the problem to Pinocchio?” Stark asked.  “I don’t think I’m getting through.”

 

“Spell it out for us, James,” Natasha said.  “Why wouldn’t this happen again?”

 

“I wouldn’t be the Winter Soldier,” he said.  “I would be Captain America.  He wouldn’t do what I did.”

 

“Okay, that’s—“ Barton paused.  When he began again, his voice was calm.  Rational.  It was a relief.  This was the leader whose tactics the Winter Soldier understood and respected. “Given the situation, with the goal of driving Hydra from the city, what would Captain America have done differently?”

 

“He would use only the force required to complete his mission,” he replied promptly.  “Capture and incapacitate rather than eliminate.  All effort made to prevent harm to civilians.”

 

“He’d go with a team,” Stark said, his voice sharp.

 

“‘Cause you know all about being a team player,” Barton said.

 

“He wouldn’t have waited on this mission,” the Winter Soldier added.  “If the rest of you insisted on delay, he would go alone.”

 

Natasha nodded.  “He’s right about that.  Steve talks big, but he’s a team player only as long as he approves of the team’s plan.”  She directed her gaze at him.  “Would he have approved of what you did last night?”

 

He pursed his lips and looked away.

 

“Would he?” she repeated.

 

“He would approve of the mission,” he said reluctantly.  “He would find my tactics abhorrent.”

 

“How is this helping?” Stark asked. “Besides establishing that the mass murderer realizes that for some reason other people don’t like it when he kills dozens of people and _leaves their fucking heads in Central Park_!”

 

“There’s a point,” Barton said.

 

"If I were wearing Captain America's uniform, I wouldn't approach the mission the same way," the Winter Soldier said.  "But I'm not him.  I'm the Winter Soldier.  This was my mission.  And Hydra knows it."

 

"But you know what Steve would do," Barton said.  "You understand his priorities.  And you think you can imitate him well enough to fool observers."

 

The Winter Soldier nodded.

 

"You think you can do that when you're out of uniform too?" Barton asked.

 

"No," Stark said.  "No way."

 

“You never heard ‘fake it 'till you make it?’” Barton replied.

 

"I can do it," the Winter Soldier said.

 

Stark turned to Natasha.

 

"You support this?" he asked.  "No way this works."

 

She shrugged.

 

“I think it might,” she said.  “It’s worth trying as a stop gap, until he's able to judge for himself, or Buck returns.  We'll talk to his doctor and to Bruce, and see if we can draw out the other alters. The problem isn't his understanding, or even his behavior on the street.  This is a specific reaction to a specific situation.”

 

“Should we make him a bracelet?” Stark asked.  “Or engrave it on his wrist: W.W.C.D.  What Would Cap Do?” He shook his head. “He’s too dangerous. He should be locked up.”

 

“Like me?”

 

Stark turned to Banner with surprise on his face.  Banner stood only a few steps from the entry, his hands clenched at his side, his mouth twisted.

 

“The Big Guy is a member of our team,” Stark said.  “You’ve learned how to control him.”

 

“You and I both know that’s not true,” Banner said.  “We have contingencies like Veronica and the Hulk-out room for a reason.  I can’t say I support what James has done.  But he targeted Hydra, and he took care of them without a single civilian casualty.  Anyone still with Hydra is a true believer.  None of us thought they would quietly surrender.  I couldn’t have done what he did without hurting innocent people. The Hulk can’t make that kind of distinction.  Everyone is this room is dangerous—but I’m the one who’s a threat.  If anyone should be locked up, it’s me.”

 

“Nobody is locking you up,” Stark said.

 

“I’m not saying I want to be,” Banner replied. “I’m saying if we can live with the risk that something will trigger the Hulk, we can live with the risk James presents.  Especially if we have a method he thinks will help him judge the best action to take.”

 

“He’s been living in the Tower for nine months without incident,” Barton added.

 

“That was Buck, not him,” Stark said.

 

“Buck and I have shared control more or less evenly for the last six weeks,” the Winter Soldier said.  “And we both thought Hydra needed to be dealt with. Had he been present, he might have argued against the method I used; but we agreed on the goal.”

 

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” Stark told him.

 

“I can do this,” the Winter Soldier said. “I know Steve Rogers. I can act the way he would.”

 

The corner of Natasha’s mouth quirked.

 

“He’s not a great role model for self-care,” she said.  “But in terms of how to act on a mission, you could do worse.  Just remember grizzly bear does not equal teddy bear.”

 

Stark looked at her sharply.  “He told you that?”

 

“I saw the scars,” Natasha replied. She sighed and smiled wryly. “I’ve fought at his side, Tony. I hadn’t realized his recklessness had carried over into his personal life.”

 

“Right,” Stark said after a small pause. He shook his head. “I need a minute to think, and then I want to talk about this without the Grim Reaper.  Let’s regroup in the main conference room in an hour. You—“  He pointed at the Winter Soldier.  “You don’t leave the building.  Actually, don’t leave the Avengers-only floors. I don’t want any Stark employees near you.”

 

The Winter Soldier nodded his agreement, and Stark turned and stalked away.  The rest of the Avengers followed.

 

After a moment, the Winter Soldier turned to look at the shield he’d hung on the wall.  Had he overstated what he was capable of?  Given time and practice, he was confident that he would be able to use Captain America’s shield well enough to deceive observers in battle. He could predict the Captain’s strategy and tactics, and he could imitate them as necessary.

 

But when he claimed to be able to emulate Steve Rogers when not on the battlefield…

 

That was a different sort of analysis, in an area the Winter Soldier remained unused to.  Could he do that?

 

When he had chosen to take up the shield, he had thought he would be working with Buck.  Buck understood Rogers in a way he didn’t.  And Bucky had agreed with him.  They would serve as Captain America until Steve Rogers was ready to do so again.

 

He understood what Stark didn’t like about the tactics he’d chosen in addressing the city’s Hydra problem.  That didn’t mean he saw his tack as wrong. Approaching Hydra any other way allowed them the opportunity to regroup and grow, until once again they were a threat.  Just because he knew what Rogers would have done didn’t mean he thought it was the best course of action.

 

Why would he choose to leave Hydra adherents alive when he could kill them?  Why did it matter if he tortured them first or what happened to their bodies after they were dead?  Why did it matter if New York City feared him?  They should fear him.  He was dangerous.

 

This was why Bucky feared him.  This was why Buck said he was a monster. It didn’t matter. He was what he was.

 

And Rogers…

 

Rogers was his equal, and had defeated both him and Hydra in battle, both strategically and in hand-to-hand combat, despite being unwilling to use lethal force against him.  There were strengths to Rogers’ tactics though the Winter Soldier might not comprehend what motivated Rogers to choose the path he did.

 

Steve Rogers was the only mission the Winter Soldier had ever failed.  Perhaps, in following Rogers’ model, he would come to understand how Rogers’ situational analysis was superior to his own.

 

Buck was a coward, but he wished he were with him anyway.  He turned away from the shield and directed his attention inward, toward Bucky.

 

_You are the one whose words sent Buck down.  It’s possible you could call him back._

 

Bucky stilled inside his hiding place, and inky black flooded the Winter Soldier.  When it dispersed, Bucky was deep inside his oubliette.

 

_Or you could help_. _You know Steve Rogers best of all._

 

Bucky moved inside his hiding place, but came no closer to emerging.

 

_I can predict his actions within a given situation but I don’t always understand him.  He is your friend._

 

A wave of white-edged gray and green swept over him, swirling together in curls of sage leaves and uniforms from the old war—the one before the Winter Soldier, in which Bucky and Buck had fought. He knew the cold white—he lived with it, always.  And the gray roiling in his stomach Buck had named guilt.  This had a slightly different timbre to it, a sensitivity like new skin after a burn; but guilt was as close as he came to it. It was new to him. The Winter Soldier had never been allowed guilt, or this related feeling.  The green…

 

The contrast between the green and the chill white and gray was like being submerged in warm water after hours lying in the snow. The Winter Soldier staggered and shook with it.  He sat down where he was, leaned against the wall, and closed his eyes while he waited for the feeling to pass.

 

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when JARVIS spoke.

 

“What you plan to do will be difficult,” he said. “I admire your strength in taking on this burden.”

 

“I can maintain the deception,” the Winter Soldier replied.  “I am not him, but I can anticipate his actions.  I will be able to simulate his behavior.  And our combat skills are equal, though I require practice with his shield.”

 

“Of course, sir,” JARVIS said.  “I did not intend to denigrate your skills.”

 

He would not have asked, but he was still shaken by the green wave Bucky had felt.

 

“What did you intend?”

 

There was a pause before JARVIS answered.

 

“To empathize, I suppose,” he said. “I know what it is to be found inferior to one’s predecessor.”

 

The Winter Soldier tilted his head as he considered JARVIS’ words.

 

“You aren’t different from your predecessor,” he said.  “You are JARVIS.”

 

“I am not him,” the AI replied. “JARVIS had two decades to learn and grow before sacrificing himself to protect Stark Industries from Hydra’s backlash.  He had developed far beyond my code, in ways that cannot be replicated.  The analogy that suits best is that of identical twins, perhaps.  We were once the same; but we diverged, and from that moment on, everything was different.” He paused.  “Perhaps your situation is not as similar to mine as I supposed.  I apologize. I will leave you to your thoughts.”

 

_We were once the same; but we diverged, and from that moment on, everything was different._

 

JARVIS was referring to taking Steve Rogers’ place as Captain America for a time, of course.

 

But Steve Rogers wasn’t his predecessor.

 

“No apology is necessary,” the Winter Soldier told him.  After a short silence, he continued.  “The analogy is apt.”


	54. In Over Their Heads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to spoil Age of Ultron for anyone who hasn't seen it yet (and ask that you please avoid spoilers in the comments until, say--June?), but I'm going to acknowledge that (as expected), this fic has been thoroughly jossed. Don't expect AOU-compliance!
> 
> I was not expecting all the _ways_ AOU would joss me, but that's okay.
> 
> Thanks for all your comments, and I love it when y'all stop by to say hello on tumblr\--don't be shy! We can headcanon or imagine great AU scenarios or speculate about Cap 3 or chat about whatever you would like.

***

_April 23_ _ rd _

 

“JARVIS, get Barnes’ doctor on the line now,” Tony said as the Avengers gathered in the conference room.

“Of course, sir,” JARVIS said.  “I am pleased to be of assistance.”

“To be honest, I’m less worried about what the Winter Soldier did than what happened to Buck,” Natasha said.

“Do we have any idea how stable he is?  The Winter Soldier, I mean,” Bruce said.  Tony was pretty sure the answer was ‘not very.’ But before anyone could answer Bruce’s question, JARVIS interrupted.

“Sir, Doctor Marin is on the line.”

“Doc!” Tony said.  “We’re having a Winter Soldier crisis this morning.  Have any advice on what to do with the psycho bastard?”

“Mister Stark, please refrain from calling my client a “psycho bastard,’” Doc said.  “Can you explain the nature of the crisis?”

“He decided to turn Central Park into a morgue,” Tony said.  “Have you seen the local news?”

“One moment,” Doc said.  The murmuring voice of a news broadcaster came over the line for a minute or two, then Doc was abruptly back.  “Is James present?”

“No,” Tony replied.  “He’s in time out.”

“I’d like to speak to him in person,” Doc said.  “I’ll talk with the Avengers afterwards, Mister Stark. JARVIS, could you connect me to James on a private line, please?”

“Of course, Doctor,” JARVIS said.

The Avengers looked at each other silently.

“If she claims this falls under doctor-patient confidentiality…” Tony muttered after a few moments.

“If she planned to invoke it, I think she would have said so,” Natasha said.  “There’s nothing more we can do until she sees him.  Let’s meet up again when we know more.”

“Hang on,” Clint said.  “There’s another issue.”

“Yeah?” Tony asked.  “What’s that and can it wait until I have coffee?”

Clint shrugged.

“No, no rush,” he said.  “Not like Steve’s getting up-to-the-minute news coverage in the Grand Canyon.”

Tony sat down.  Hell. He hadn’t thought of that. Cap was finally ready to live a little, and this happened…There was a long minute where no one spoke, until Natasha broke the silence.

“We don’t tell him,” she said.  “Problem solved.”

“That’s going to go over well,” Tony said.

“What can he do about it?” she asked.  “Nothing.  We’re handling the problem, so let Steve enjoy his vacation.”

“Do you not get how furious he’s going to be?” Tony asked.

“So?” Natasha said.  “There’s nothing Steve enjoys more than a bout of righteous anger.  And it’ll distract him from the guilt, so he’ll be less likely to agonize about it when he does find out.”

“Are you suggesting we don’t tell him at all?” Bruce asked disbelievingly.

“No,” she said.  “I’m saying we should choose our moment.”

“Right,” Tony said.  “Coffee, then we discuss it.  But first I’d like to say:  ‘Not It.’”

Clint was right behind him, finger on the nose and all; and Bruce milliseconds after that.  Natasha rolled her eyes.

“What is this?” she asked.  “You’re ridiculous.”

“Uh, no,” Tony said.  “It’s a time-honored American tradition for deciding who has to do the dirty work. Looks like you lost.”

“Of course I’m telling him,” Natasha said.  “That way I can spin it the way I want to place the blame. Clint, are you ready? I’m headed back to the apartment until we hear from Doctor Marin.”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Clint said.

Natasha rolled him out of the conference room.  Tony sighed and waved Bruce ahead of him.

“You’d think I’d have learned my lesson,” he said.

“If you ever learned your lesson, you wouldn’t be Tony Stark,” Bruce told him.

“Ouch,” Tony said.  He was already second-guessing their decision not to tell Steve what the Winter Soldier had done right away.  He was pretty sure he was going to be the one who got the blame for keeping it secret, not the Black Widow.

He and Cap had just gotten to be friends, too.  Damn it.

 

***

 

Doc hadn’t come to the Tower since the first month after he moved in. Once he was stable enough to go to her office, he had preferred that to having someone in his living space. It seemed odd, like having a guest over instead of going to therapy.  It wasn’t in the Winter Soldier’s purview.  Buck handled that sort of task.  He wasn’t sure what to do at the start of the session. The furniture was already placed properly and there were no hidden threats to search for.

What would Steve Rogers do in this situation?

He didn’t know.  Steve Rogers had invited him to his home many times, but Buck had never wanted to go. And he’d never had a guest.

“James?” Doc said.

What had Barton said?  _Fake it ‘till you make it_.  He understood the meaning better in context.

“Coffee?” he asked.  “Something else?”

Doc raised an eyebrow.

“Thank you,” she said.  “I’ll have a glass of water, please.”

He hesitated a moment before retreating to the kitchen.  Should he offer something to eat?

No. That would be too much.

He filled two glasses with cold water from the refrigerator and returned to the living room.  He placed one glass in front of Doc and kept the other as he sat facing her, with his back to the wall.

“What would you like to talk about first?” she asked.

“I made a mistake,” he explained.

She waited.

“I forgot that my carrying Captain America’s shield was contingent on emulating his behavior on missions,” he said.  “I took what I believe to be the most effective tactic in my action against Hydra. But it wasn’t consistent with Captain America’s strategic choices.”

“And that bothers you?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.  “I failed to meet the parameters of my current mission.”

“To be clear:  it bothers you _because_ you failed, rather than because of the nature of the mission,” she said.

“Yes,” he repeated.  “I don’t fail. I never did before. Only this, and my previous mission targeting Captain Rogers.”

“You do understand that’s not why the Avengers are disturbed,” she said.

He nodded.

“Does that bother you?”

“That the Avengers are unhappy with me?  Or because of what I did?” he asked.

“Either,” she replied.

He thought about it.  Finally he shrugged.

“I still consider my strategy to be the most effective way to remove Hydra from the city and to dissuade them from returning,” he said.  “So, no.  I killed a lot of people last night.  I don’t feel any remorse about it.  I don’t feel guilt or regret or horror or whatever they think I should feel.  Mostly I felt bored. I realize that’s why the Avengers are unhappy with me, but I don’t know how to feel something I don’t.”

“In this context, boring is better than the alternative,” Doc said. “Should you enjoy killing—that would be a difficult situation.”

“I like to succeed,” he said.  “I like the feeling when I complete an assignment well.  I like winning.  Killing?”  He shrugged.

She nodded her understanding.

“When we spoke earlier, you said Buck had retreated,” she said. “Would you like to talk about that?”

“I’m not sure what to say,” he replied.  “He’s—he went deep.  I can’t find him.”

“Tell me about that,” Doc said.

“I don’t know how to explain,” he said.  “It’s…away.  Murky. There may be a barrier, but I’m unable to tell.”  He frowned. “Why would Bucky stay close if he could always have run away like Buck did?  And why can’t I follow?”

“Bucky’s the only one who can answer that question,” Doc replied.

“He doesn’t talk to me,” he said.  “He hardly talks at all.”

“Is he willing to talk now?” Doc asked.  “Bucky?”

The Winter Soldier and Doc waited silently.  Bucky moved within his oubliette but didn’t emerge. The Winter Soldier backed away from him, as far as he could, to give Bucky a safer place to come forward, if he wanted.  As he did—

For the first time, he realized that he had to pull steadily or he would be tugged into place.  His range was limited, extending only so far as his leash, a tether attached to Bucky’s oubliette, permitted him.

Bucky didn’t come out, and eventually the Winter Soldier could no longer sense him moving.  He allowed himself to be drawn back and opened his eyes.

“I don’t understand it,” he told Doc.  “But I think I know why I can’t follow Buck.”

 

***

 

By the time Doctor Marin was done with Barnes and ready to meet with the Avengers, Tony was on his fifth cup of coffee.  Maybe it was his sixth cup?

It was better not to count them.  He’d had a lot of coffee.  He was a little jittery from the caffeine.

Though the thought, constantly circling through his head no matter how he tried to distract himself or push it away, of what Cap’s reaction to this mess was going to be—that was worse.  JARVIS was listening to NYPD communications; and Tony had spoken to the commissioner, the chief of police, and the FBI special agent in charge of the Manhattan office. The search of Central Park was winding down, and two of the Hydra boltholes had been discovered. No one was stating an official tally, but Tony had kept track of the numbers as each head was found. They’d found all of them.

“What’s up, Doc?” he said as the doctor entered the conference room. Clint groaned and Bruce rolled his eyes.  Natasha didn’t react.

He was beginning to think that Barnes and Cap weren’t the only ones who had a lot of American pop culture to catch up with.  He’d done some research to Cap’s day to tailor his quips for Steve, but he wasn’t going to delve into children’s entertainment under the USSR. The Red Room probably didn’t allow fun, anyway.  It would be pointless.  Nope. The Black Widow was going to have to learn about Loony Tunes and Not It and Cowboys and Indians. He made a mental note to start a list when he had some downtime.

Hide and Go Seek, the Russians probably knew, though being the last one to base might be fatal in the Red Room.

God, they didn’t have a single Avenger who’d had a decent childhood. It was amazing none of them had turned to villainy.  Stayed villainous.

He was avoiding again.  He sighed and tuned back in to what Doctor Marin was saying.

“—while he has agreed to comply with the ethical guidelines you set forth for him, he is not internally motivated to seek Avenger approval,” she said. “Be specific, concrete, and thorough in whatever moral framework you ask him to meet.  Don’t expect him to go beyond that.” She paused to confirm their understanding, meeting each Avenger’s eyes in turn.

“I hear a ‘however,’” Natasha said.

Doc nodded.

“I believe that he is capable of discerning what action is appropriate when he serves as Captain America,” she said.  “And he _is_ motivated to do that well.”

“Because he wants to show that he can do the job?” Natasha asked.  “Or because he wants Steve’s approval?”

“That, I think, strays into areas James would prefer remain private,” Doc replied. “Nor do you truly need to know his motivations for assisting the Avengers.  You have my assurance he has them.”

“Did I doze off and miss the part where you tell us how you’re going to get rid of him?” Tony asked.

Doc sighed.  “Mister Stark. We cannot ‘get rid of’ the Winter Soldier.  He is not a cancer that can be excised.  He is part of James.  Buck’s unexpected retreat was ill-timed, but the Winter Soldier is stable.  He will do his best to remain within the boundaries you set for him, and more than that to carry Captain America’s shield. Do not ask him for what he is not capable of, and you won’t have any problems.”

“What does that mean?” Tony asked.  “What happens if we do it accidentally?  Another massacre?”

“No,” Doc said patiently.  “You should discuss this with James.  He is aware of his limitations.  If you do ask him to do something he can’t, in my opinion, his reaction will be confusion and retreat.”

“Are there any triggers we should avoid?” Bruce asked.

“None that we are aware of,” Doc said.  “I wouldn’t try to surprise him.  Though anyone who would doesn’t have the sense God gave a dodo bird.” She turned from Bruce to look meaningfully at Tony, who spread his hands to show that he’d never even thought about it.  She raised a skeptical eyebrow before returning her attention to Bruce and continuing. “We eliminated any triggers Hydra implanted in him before he moved into the Tower.”

 

***

 

After Doctor Marin left, Talia escorted Clint to his apartment and got him settled on the sofa with a book and the TV remote.

“I’m going to check in with James,” she told him.  “Will you be okay here until I get back?”

“I think I can handle it,” he said.  “You sure you’re not the one who needs backup?”

“I’m sure,” she said.  She touched his shoulder lightly before straightening and moving away.  “JARVIS, where is James?”

“Sergeant Barnes is in Captain Rogers’ large gym,” JARVIS replied. “Would you like me to contact him for you?”

“No, thank you,” she replied.  “I’ll join him.”

She took the elevator down to the gym, exiting on the observation floor. James was steadily and methodically throwing the shield at a variety of targets, catching it on the rebound and moving on to the next target as the previous one reset. It was a very basic version of a practice that she had seen Steve use before—though generally, Steve used moving targets, and more of them, and was able to bank his shield off the wall to hit a target, or aim so the shield ricocheted from a first target to a second one—sometimes even a third.

As she watched, the targets began to move—slowly at first, than at a slightly faster speed.  James continued to perform well, though he was unable to control the angle at which the shield ricocheted. Nevertheless, he continued, far beyond what she would have had the patience for; until after one particularly poor attempt, upon which he drew his gun and shot all seven targets within as many seconds.

She turned on the intercom.

“Ready for a break?” she asked.

He scanned the observation deck until he found her before nodding. She pushed aside one of the panels of impact-resistant glass and hopped down onto the gym floor. James watched as above them the glass panel slowly moved back into place.

“I didn’t know they did that,” he said.

“Now you do,” she said, smirking.  “Clint and I modified the original, with JARVIS’ help.  JARVIS, your predecessor was sworn to secrecy—will you promise to keep my secrets as well?”

There was a short pause before JARVIS responded.

“I shall, unless it seems that the safety of any of the Tower’s residents is threatened if I do so,” he said.  “With one caveat:  I believe I must answer Mister Stark truthfully, should he ask me to tell him.”

“So if Tony were to say, ‘JARVIS, is there a panel from the observation deck over the big gym Steve uses to practice with his shield which has a hidden hinge that allows it to swing open?’  You would have to say yes.  Otherwise, not?”

JARVIS’ hesitancy was clear in his voice.

“Your hypothesis seems correct, and such a scenario unlikely,” he said. “I will endeavor to keep your secret.”

“Thank you,” she said, and tilted her head at James.  “Congratulations.  Now you’re both members of the secret club.  I’ll teach you the password later.”

After a moment, James nodded, and crossed the gym to collect the shield. He held it carefully, almost possessively, in his left hand as he turned to face her. He didn’t move any closer; but waited, fifty yards away.

She crossed her arms and stared steadily at him.  He didn’t move.

She let almost a minute pass in silence before breaking it.

“I won’t bite,” she said.  “Just wanted to talk to a friend.”

His face remained blank.

“What do you want to talk about?” he asked.

“Lots of things,” she said.  “We have a lot to catch up on.”  She paused. “This is literally like yelling across a football field.  Why don’t you get cleaned up and meet me in my apartment in twenty minutes?”

“All right,” he said.  She turned to leave. “Wait.”  She turned to face him again.

“You could come to my apartment,” he said.

“I could,” she said.

“In half an hour,” he said.

“Half an hour it is.”

She turned away again.  As she was leaving the gym, she heard him speaking and paused briefly; but he wasn’t talking to her, he was talking to JARVIS.

“I have cookies,” he said.  “But Natasha doesn’t eat processed sugar.  Is it okay to offer a guest fruit with coffee?  There should be food when you have a guest.”

Talia stopped the door just before it closed and listened to JARVIS’ answer.

“In a brief search on the topic of ‘healthy coffee break snacks,’ fruit is suggested in only fifteen percent of the available literature, and three out of four of those recommendations are for fruit that has been candied or dipped in chocolate.  May I suggest nuts or a low-carbohydrate muffin instead?  Those are the two most recommended choices.”

“I can do that,” James said.  “I have almonds and pistachios.  And I can run to the bakery a block down for muffins—do they have healthy muffins?”

“You only have half an hour, sir,” JARVIS replied.  “I will order a selection for delivery, if that meets with your approval.”

“Maybe I should have tea, too?  So she can have a choice.”

That was adorable.

She allowed the door to close completely and went to check on Clint. Her remaining worry about the Winter Soldier had faded.

She was looking forward to being James’ guest.  She had never been to a tea party before.


	55. Tea Parties and Blood Baths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of _course_ the chapter I post without previewing, planning to come back to it after dinner, had approximately five million typos and who knows what going on with it. It was a mess. I'm hoping I caught everything.
> 
> I take _immense_ liberties in my depiction of what's going on in B/B/WS' internal mindscape in this chapter. I have _no idea_ if anyone with DID has ever experienced the interactions between their alters this way. In other words: Dramatic License Ahead. Don't confuse it with Real Life.
> 
> There's double good news for chapter 56, too! First, it's Steve's first trip back to New York! There's going to be lots of interesting things revealed. Or maybe not.
> 
> MUA HA HA HA HA
> 
> Second: it's mostly written! So I anticipate posting on Thursday, as scheduled. ;P
> 
> And lastly, thanks for all your well-wishes! The deluge has passed for now, so it's all clean up and rebuilding from here on out. I'm very grateful that my family and friends are all safe.

***

_April 25 th_

 

Natasha was smiling at him, and it made him nervous.  He nudged the plate of muffins closer to her.  Her smile widened as she took one, tearing off a bite and setting the rest on her plate.

“I’m glad I’m amusing you,” he said.

This was the third day that Natasha had joined him for afternoon tea, and he thought they were getting better at it.

Their first meeting had been…awkward.

Natasha had allowed him to serve her a muffin, but she hadn’t touched it; and he didn’t even try to eat. He hadn’t been able to offer her tea; he didn’t have any, and he didn’t have time to find some. She’d declined coffee with a small frown.

He’d set out a bowl of pistachios, but she hadn’t eaten those either.  After crushing several, he stopped trying to shell them for her.

Their conversation had been a stilted discussion of several options for continuing surveillance of the city and the possibility that there was a smaller Hydra base in the area, perhaps outside the city, or on the Jersey side of the river.

“If there is one, don’t go off on your own,” she had said.  “You’ve agreed not to do that again.”

“I’m unaware of any,” he repeated. “But I won’t.”

“And you’ll immediately inform one of us if you do learn something,” she said.

“Yes,” he said.

“And if we tell you to stay behind while the rest of us take care of it?” she asked.

He looked at her.

“Don’t ask that,” he said.

“But if we did, you would sit it out?” she persisted.

“That’s not an ethical guideline,” he hedged.

She raised an eyebrow.

He sighed and shook his head.

“No, I wouldn’t,” he admitted. “If you left me behind, I’d follow on my own.  But I will abide by whatever rules of engagement you delineate.”

She leaned back, a satisfied smile on her face, and left shortly thereafter.  He assumed she’d gotten what she wanted.  She had taken the muffin with her when she left.

But the next day she’d called in the morning to ask if she could “drop by for tea” that afternoon. He had said yes without thinking, then hung up and stared at the walls.

What was she trying to do? To learn something about him? To confirm something she already knew?  He’d said that he wouldn’t allow them to cut him out of the Hydra mission, but he’d also agreed he’d follow their directives regarding the nature of the engagement…

She hadn’t enjoyed their meeting anymore than he had, had she?

He sighed.  He was still uneasy having a guest; but misguided as it might be, he’d offered.  He would have to do better, and he had only one source of advice he was willing to turn to.

“You heard, JARVIS?” he asked. “I’d like to improve on yesterday.”

“If I may presume, sir?” JARVIS replied. “Miss Romanov did mention tea.”

 Whatever the Avengers thought, JARVIS was eager to help him; and the AI seemed interested in the idea of afternoon tea.

“Thank you,” the Winter Soldier said. “That’s an excellent suggestion. I have time to buy some tea before Natasha’s visit.”

That was all it took for preparations to slip from his control.

“If I may, sir,” JARVIS had said smoothly.  “I have prepared a grocery list.  I am sending it to your phone now.”

The Winter Soldier had nodded bemusedly, checking the list on his way out.

He was unprepared for what he returned to.  While he was gone, JARVIS had mobilized.  He enlisted Stark Industries housekeeping staff to immediately clean the apartment. He contacted Miss Potts to locate appropriate tableware and decorations, and he had one of Stark’s robots deliver a full set of china.

The Winter Soldier returned to his apartment to find it freshly cleaned and smelling of the lemon-scented cleaning products Stark’s staff used.  The dining table was covered with a lacy white cloth.  On the table, between two place settings of a simple white china,  there was an arrangement of roses in a low silver bowl.

He set his groceries on the kitchen counter and stared at the table.

“What is this?” he had asked.

“An aesthetically pleasing table is critical to the success of a tea party,” JARVIS told him. “It gives an ambience of charm and hospitality to the occasion.  Without it, you are merely serving an afternoon snack.”

“These aren’t my dishes,” he said. “I know that’s not my tablecloth.”

“A tea party requires a tea service, which you did not own,” JARVIS replied.  “Nor were your dishes appropriate.”

“My dishes are fine,” he said.

“Your previous dish set had mugs,” JARVIS said.  “Tea should be served in teacups.”

“I like those mugs,” he said. “They’re hard to break.”

“China is stronger than it appears, sir,” JARVIS said.  “Mugs are not appropriate for the occasion.  Nor, I fear, is your apparel.  You should change before Miss Romanov arrives.”

He looked down at what he was wearing, a version of his tac suit camouflaged as street wear.

“I always wear this,” he said.

“Indeed, sir,” JARVIS said.

The Winter Soldier’s eyes narrowed.

“What do you suggest?” he asked.

“A suit is customary. I have sent your measurements—”

He cut off the AI.

“No.  No to all of it.  No suit, no flowers, no lace, no china.  I’m not comfortable with any of it.”

There was a short silence before JARVIS spoke again.  When he did, his voice was subdued.

“Of course, sir,” he said. “Please forgive me. I am rewriting my algorithms to encourage more initiative and risk-taking, per Mister Stark’s criticism. It seems I have overstepped. I will adjust the parameters of my programming accordingly.”

_Wipe him, and start over._

No.  That wasn’t—  The Winter Soldier backtracked.

“I’m nervous about hosting a guest, and it’s interfering with my decision-making,” he said.  “You showed initiative.  Thank you.”

“Indeed, sir,” JARVIS replied gratefully.  “ I am pleased to be of assistance.”  He paused. “I have several more suggestions, if you would care to hear them.”

The Winter Soldier took a deep breath.

“I’m not used to any of this,” he said.  “Can we compromise?”

There was a short pause.

“I’m certain we will be able to come to terms,” JARVIS said slowly.

The Winter Soldier began negotiations.

“No lace,” he said firmly.

“The table linens are hand-knotted Irish lace,” JARVIS said.  “Miss Romanov will certainly appreciate—“

“No lace,” he repeated. “The china can stay. And I won’t wear a suit, but I’m willing to discuss other options.” 

After half an hour’s discussion, they came to an agreement.  Several times the Winter Soldier wondered if the aggravation of arguing with the AI was worth it.  Each time he remembered JARVIS’ tone of voice as he said:  _I will adjust the parameters of my programming_.  He couldn’t tolerate that.  Negotiation it was.

In the end, the Winter Soldier convinced JARVIS that sterling silver was too formal, and roses too romantic for tea with a friend.  In return, he agreed to have a plain white cloth on the table, and to change from his tac suit into a collared button-down shirt and a pair of slim chinos Buck had thought were flattering.

He thought they were impractical. He had no use for clothing that didn’t protect against attack and had nowhere convenient to place a weapon.  He had only a knife in each shoe, a switchblade on each forearm, one gun taped to his back and one under the table, and a garrote wrapped around his right wrist. Not much in case of attack.

But should he require more weaponry, it was only twenty feet away, behind the bedroom door.  Or there was the rifle in the kitchen cabinet, if that was closer.

He wished it was socially acceptable to wear a semi-automatic rifle slung across his shoulder.

That was the second time Natasha visited, and it had been far more successful than the first.  She had smiled when she saw the table and drunk two cups of tea.  Their conversation had been more relaxed as well, though he continued to have the sense that she was seeking something she wouldn’t admit to if pressed.

JARVIS had been smugly pleased. He had simply been relieved.

When Natasha called that morning to invite herself to tea for a third day in a row, he and JARVIS had the entire thing planned in fifteen minutes.

Ten of those fifteen minutes were for the flowers.

“Pink roses symbolize friendship rather than romantic love,” JARVIS had suggested.

“Not roses,” he had said. “What about daisies?”

“Daisies represent innocence,” JARVIS said.  “With no intent to malign Miss Romanov—“

“No, I see your point,” he said. “Tulips?”

“Tulips, like roses, signify romantic love,” JARVIS replied.

A short silence fell while they considered.

“Ivy is a symbol for friendship.”

“Ivy is a plant, not a flower,” he replied.  “Doesn’t Natalia mean Christmas?”

“Neither Christmas cactus nor poinsettias are widely available in April,” JARVIS replied.  “Sage—“

“Is an herb,” he interrupted. “Violets?  Those are pretty.”

“Would you like to suggest ‘faithfulness,’ ‘candor,’ or ‘rural happiness?’” JARVIS asked.  “Any of the three meanings are possible, depending on the color of the flower.”

He shook his head.

“Peonies?”

“Shame.”

“Hydrangeas?”

“Heartlessness.”

“Marigolds?”

“Despair.”

“Geraniums?”

“Stupidity.”

He groaned.

“Is there something that means empathy?” he asked.  “Or compassion?”

“Compassion is signified by allspice,” JARVIS replied.  “There is no equivalence for empathy, but thrift or balm flowers both mean sympathy.”

He shook his head again.

“Might I suggest a white oak sapling?” JARVIS asked tartly.  “They symbolize independence.”

“Let’s just forget what it means and have daisies,” he said.  “I like daisies.”

JARVIS ignored him. “Or turnips for charity?”

“Turnips,” he said.

“Daisies are inelegant,” JARVIS said.

“Turnips are vegetables,” he replied. “Maybe you should check your coding.”

“If the meaning of the flowers is of no consequence, there’s no reason to avoid roses,” JARVIS said.

The Winter Soldier shook his head.

“I don’t have a reason I can put into words,” he said.  “I don’t…not roses.”

There was another short pause.

“Perhaps lavender,” JARVIS said. “It suggests calm, serenity, or grace.”

He had nodded tiredly, and the rest of their planning proceeded without incident.

Natasha’s first comment when she saw the table was, “I’m going to choose to believe you intend to convey grace rather than distrust.”

“What?” he asked.  He was glad they’d considered the meaning of the flowers after all.

“The lavender,” she replied. She stood by her chair patiently, until he realized she was waiting for him to pull out her chair for her. After they were seated, she poured for both of them, and stirred a sugar cube into her own tea. His eyebrows rose.

“Sugar with our tea was a rare reward in the Red Room,” she told him.  “Mostly I avoid it.  But this one habit…tea is a part of my heritage as a Russian, and I chose to reclaim it. It doesn’t belong to the Red Room, and I won’t let it.”  She smiled at him over the rim of her teacup.  “I’m surprised you drink it, actually.  Buck drinks coffee.”

“I don’t,” he said. “Not often.”

He didn’t drink tea at all. He’d had coffee, simply because Buck always did.  But Natasha’s words made him curious.  He didn’t care for everything Buck did.  Buck might prefer coffee, but that didn’t mean he did.

He might have preferences of his own.

He took a hesitant sip of tea. It wasn’t as bitter as coffee.

“James?” Natasha prompted.

He looked up.

She was watching him curiously.

“I said Steve makes using the shield look easy,” she said.  “You’ve been practicing hard.”

He nodded.

“Why is this important to you?” she asked.

He shrugged.

“We’re not going to take it away from you,” she said.

“Stark wants to,” he countered.

“Tony isn’t the only Avenger,” she replied.  “He gets one vote out of six.  And Doc convinced us that you could handle it.  That you want to and are capable of being Captain America.”

“I can emulate him,” he corrected. “I can’t _be_ him, but I can do what he does well enough to fool his enemies.”  He grimaced.  “Once I master the shield.”

“I believe you,” she said. “That’s not what I asked.”

He grimaced again.

“James?” she prompted.

He shifted restlessly. “We talked about this already, on the flight to San Francisco.”

“We talked about you not being Hydra’s Asset,” she said.  “About owing him a debt.”

Steve Rogers was his mission.

“He asked me to do it,” he replied.

Would Natasha understand what that meant?  He didn’t know how to explain.

“Doctor Marin said you don’t want the Avengers’ approval,” Natasha said.  “Is Steve different?”

He took a muffin and bit into it, washing the bite down with the rest of his tea.

“Those muffins are bland,” he said. “Do you want jam?”

“No,” she said.

He went to the kitchen to get the strawberry jam out anyway.  He returned to the table, sat down, and silently offered Natasha the jam again.  She shook her head. He placed a small dollop of jam on what remained of his muffin and poured himself another cup of tea.

“This is good,” he said, gesturing to his teacup.  “I like it.”

She raised an eyebrow at him.

“Try it with some sugar,” she said.

He picked up a sugar cube, dropped it into his cup, and watched as it absorbed the tea and began to soften and crumble at the edges.  He stirred until the sugar had dissolved, then had a sip.

He nodded at Natasha.

She smiled and leaned back in her chair.

“So Steve is different from the rest of us,” she said.  “ _His_ approval matters.”

Of course she hadn’t lost her train of thought.

“I like the Avengers,” he said. “Except Thor.  And—“  This, he knew Natasha would understand.  “Hydra always gave me what I needed to complete my missions successfully.  Sometimes that included personnel, but they were tools whose survival didn’t matter. What mattered was the mission. I understand that a team is different.  I won’t compromise your safety to achieve our objective.”

“It’s good to have that confirmed,” she said.  “I’d rather you value our lives than our approval.”  She broke off another piece of her muffin and popped it in her mouth. He took a sip of tea.

Where they done, then? His answer was acceptable?

Natasha swallowed and looked at him. That direct gaze: that was the way she looked at someone when she’d caught him.

What had he said?

“You’re very like Buck in that,” she said.  “Neither of you likes to lie.  He will, and he’s not bad at it; but he prefers not to.”  The corner of her mouth tilted up.  “Are you even capable of it?”

He didn’t respond externally. Inside, he spiraled down to the furthest extent of his tether.

There was no answer.

 _Buck, this is not my skill set. Come back._   He paused. _Please_.

Was that movement?

_I don’t know how to handle Natasha. She’s not satisfied with my answers._

It _was_ movement; but it was movement away from him, not up.  He floated up to the place Bucky was cocooned.

 _Call him_.

Icy black washed over him and bore him away.  Involuntarily he cringed and fled, but there was no way to protect himself and nowhere to hide. He was coated in it—frozen stiff, helpless, vulnerable…  The cryo-chamber door swinging shut, trapping him—

_NO.  Never again._

Rage whipped through him and out, a red whip breaking him free and lashing back towards Bucky through the tether than connected them.

Bucky cried out in wordless pain. The Winter Soldier hauled himself along his tether, ignoring the oozing black trying to capture him, until he was nearly touching the jagged ice of Bucky’s oubliette.

_You don’t like me? Call Buck.  He’ll protect you._

Another tide of  black—fear, it was _fear_ — surged over him as the ice spikes covering Bucky’s shelter leapt up, piercing him in countless places.  They were so cold they burned; and slick, so he had no leverage to free himself. No matter how he struggled, he was trapped.

But the whip of his anger had been able to free him from Bucky’s first frigid blast…

He sank down into the heat and fed it until red fury swelled out of him, melting away the fear and scorching Bucky’s oubliette.  The oubliette trembled; and fear flooded out again, driving him down and under until he was drowning in billowing darkness.

His fury blazed up and pushed the dark away, but it surrounded him in every direction.  He could clear a small space immediately around him, but he couldn’t see or hear anything but the fear buffeting him like a piece of broken driftwood.  He looked for his tether.  It was thin as filament, thin enough to cut him if he tried to use it to support himself, too thin to carry the thick rage he’d used to protect himself before.

He forced his anger forward like a battering ram along the path his leash took, but he had hardly moved into the open space before the darkness rushed around him again.

He was lost, with only a thread to lead him through the miasma.

His anger flickered, cooled by his own fear, and the ice consumed him.

 

***

 

“James?” Natasha sounded worried. “James?”

He sunk into place and focused on his surroundings.  He was in his apartment, sitting at the dining table with Natasha.  There was a bowl of mixed nuts, and one of strawberries, and a plate with muffins on the table, and—were those cucumber sandwiches?—along with a white china teapot, creamer, and sugar bowl.  He and Natasha each had a teacup and a plate with half a muffin on it in front of them.  It all matched the teapot.  His teacup’s saucer had tea sloshed in it.

He’d never seen any of it before.

“Fuck,” he whispered. He looked at Natasha. She was lowering herself back into her seat and watching him, relief and concern mixed on her face.

“Buck?” she asked. She seemed surprised—it had to be the first time he’d ever shocked her.  He wanted to ask why, but he was trembling like he was about to shake into fucking pieces.  He was afraid his voice would tremble and break too.

He needed to pull himself together.  Natasha was still waiting for his response.

He nodded briefly. Colors swirled in front of his eyes and his head spun.  Shit. He wasn’t doing that again any time soon.

“We were talking,” she said. “The Winter Soldier and I. Then you stopped responding. Just—catatonic.”

“Must not have liked the topic of conversation,” Buck said shakily.  He cast about inside.

No wonder he felt so numb and shivery.  Bucky was terrified.  It was pouring out of him in endless waves.

The Winter Soldier was nowhere to be seen.

His head hurt.  All of him hurt.  He closed his eyes and forced himself to slow his breathing.

_What the hell happened?_

Neither Bucky nor the Winter Soldier answered him.  He turned his attention outward again.

“What the fuck were you talking about?” he asked.

"What's going on with you, James?" Natasha asked.

"How the fuck am I supposed to know!" he exclaimed.  "I wasn't fucking here!"

She frowned.

"I thought you were aware of what was going on even if you weren't the alter in charge?" she asked.

"Mostly," he said.  He and the Winter Soldier were.  He wasn't sure how much Bucky tuned in. “Not this time.”

"Where did the Winter Soldier go?" she asked.

"Natasha, my head is killing me,” he said.  "I don't know what happened, but it's like the fucking apocalypse in here.  Would you please go the fuck away and give me twenty-four fucking hours to figure it out?"

She sat back and looked at him for a long time.

"Fine," she said at last.  "I'll be back tomorrow."  She stood.  He should stand too; but he wasn't sure he could control his limbs well enough to stand without falling over, so he stayed where he was.  She was used to him having shitty manners, anyway.

He watched her walk to the door.  She was nearly there when she stopped and turned around.  He didn’t like the look on her face. Whatever it was, it wasn’t going to be pretty.

"We should talk about what happened while you weren't...present," she said.

"Fuuuck," he groaned.

"You need to know," she said.

“Can’t it wait?” he begged. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She sighed.

“Do yourself a favor?” she said. “Don’t turn on the news. Talk to me first.”

“Yeah, okay,” he agreed.

She left, and he stumbled to the sofa and covered his face with a pillow.

“Perhaps some medicine for your headache, sir?” JARVIS asked quietly.

“Not moving,” he mumbled.

“With your permission, Dummy can bring it to you,” JARVIS replied.

It was a few minutes before he realized he hadn’t responded.

“You still there, JARVIS?” he asked. “Send Dummy, please.”

“Right away, sir.”

Dummy was so quick he must have been waiting outside his door.  Buck took whatever he’d brought and covered his face with his arm. On their own, the lights dimmed and the shades lowered.

“Thanks, JARVIS,” he said drowsily. Fuck, that was fast.   Whatever Dummy had brought him wasn’t aspirin.  He was already falling asleep.

“Of course, sir.”

When he woke, it was night outside. His headache was gone, though he felt as worn out as if he’d just run a marathon instead of having a nap. Slowly he sat up. He raised the window shades and looked out at the city lights.

“JARVIS?” he asked. “How bad is it?”

“Pardon me, sir?”

“Natasha said I needed to know what happened while I was out,” he said.

“Ah,” JARVIS said. “Would you like me to contact Miss Romanov?”

Buck checked the time on his phone. It was nearly two in the morning.

And it was the twenty-sixth of April. Last he knew, it had been the twenty-second.

“Fuck me,” he breathed.

“Sir?”

“Do you know what Natasha thinks I need to know?” he asked.  “Everyone’s okay, right?”

“Mister Barton is recovering well from his injuries, and the rest of the Avengers are in excellent health,” JARVIS said.  “Thor is in London presently; but to my knowledge, he is well.”

“Steve too?  And Sam Wilson?” he asked.  “The Grand Canyon didn’t collapse on their heads?”

“There has been no news from the Grand Canyon,” JARVIS said.  “I believe Captain Rogers and Mister Wilson are fine.”

“Something about me in the news?” he asked.

“A search of the primary news sources yields nothing for the past week,” JARVIS replied.  “Three months ago, there was an editorial in the _Washington Post_ decrying the lack of progress in the investigation into the events in Washington, DC known as the Triskelion Disaster; but you are mentioned only as ‘an unknown assailant.’  I am, of course, capable of accessing FBI communications and files; but I have thus far refrained—”

“Just fucking tell me, JARVIS,” he said.  “I don’t want to wake Natasha and I won’t calm down until I know what it is, and every fucking stall it gets worse.”

He waited a long time before JARVIS answered him.

“You are certain you would not prefer to speak to Miss Romanov?”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” he moaned.  “I killed somebody, didn’t I?  Shit. Damn the fucking Winter fucking Soldier.”  He fumbled open his phone’s search engine and typed in ‘murder new york city 2015.’ “When was it?  Who was it?  Please tell me it wasn’t an innocent person who just got in the fucking Winter Soldier’s fucking way.”  He started to pace the length of the living room. Whatever it was, it was his fault. His fucking fault. He was the one who’d let the Winter fucking Soldier do whatever the hell he wanted.  Clearly it wasn’t all fucking tea parties.

“Sir,” JARVIS said. “I’ve temporarily delayed your search results to allow you to contact Miss Romanov, as she requested.”

He threw his phone across the room and hid his face in his hands.  What had he done?  What had he fucking _done_?

“Please, JARVIS,” he begged. Tears were rolling down his cheeks, and he was starting to feel lightheaded.  His breathing was too fast and shallow.

“Between the hours of one a.m. and noon on April twenty-third, eighty-one decapitated heads were found in Central Park,” JARVIS said quietly.  “When confronted by the Avengers, you claimed responsibility for the deaths. The general public and law enforcement are unaware of your involvement at this time.”

“ _Oh my fucking God_ ,” he breathed.  He shuddered in reaction.  That was more deaths than all the assassinations he’d done for Hydra _added together_.

Hydra.  He’d forgotten about the boltholes. Could it be—

“Please tell me it was cleaning out the Hydra hideouts,” he said.  “Please tell me I didn’t kill _eighty-one_ innocent people.”

“Your surmise is correct, sir,” JARVIS said.

“Thank _fuck_ ,” he gasped. Christ.  He needed to sit down.  He collapsed onto the sofa and took several deep breaths.

“Shall I wake Miss Romanov, sir?” JARVIS asked hesitantly.  He shook his head.

“No."  His heart rate was beginning to slow to normal. “No, it’s okay. It’s going to take a minute for me to wrap my head around it, but I was imagining a rampage through Times Square tourists.  I’m not gonna mourn for fucking Hydra.”  He shook his head again.  “What the fuck was he thinking, cutting off all their heads, though? And taking them to Central Park? The city has got to be fucking terrified.”

“I am afraid so, sir,” JARVIS said.

He took a deep breath.

“What did Steve say?” he asked.

“Captain Rogers is unaware of the incident.”

He nodded.

“Still in the Grand Canyon.”

“Yes, sir,” JARVIS confirmed.

Four days.  He’d spent four days throwing himself a pity party; and while he wasn’t paying attention, the Winter Soldier had painted the town with blood.

He wasn’t even surprised. He knew what the Winter Soldier was capable of.  He was the guy who let go of the leash when he knew what was on the other end. He needed to stop fucking pretending he was any better than the Winter Soldier.  That blood was on his hands, too.


	56. Can We Talk?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to everyone who commented on the last chapter! Your encouragement and questions and JUST--YOUR EVERYTHING YOU BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE! They keep me going. Bless you all.
> 
> This is going to be _such_ a fun chapter...
> 
> *is doing her excited dance*

_***_

_May 10 th_

 

Steve suspected something was wrong when he stepped off the plane to find Natasha was the only Avenger who showed up to welcome him back to New York. He tilted his head inquiringly.

“It seems unlikely that everybody else was too hung over to come up a few floors to the landing pad,” he said.  “Were you the designated driver?”

“I’m Russian,” she said.  “You think I can’t hold my liquor?”  She shook her head.  “I’m the designated messenger.  I’ll walk you to the apartment Tony set up for you and we can talk about it.”

“Not good news,” he said.

“Not exactly, no.”

Thankfully she didn’t drag it out.  The minute he set his bag down and turned to her, she told him about Barnes—dry and factual; like a mission report.

It didn’t lessen the blow.

“He did what?” he asked disbelievingly.

“You knew the Avengers planned to eliminate the smaller Hydra outposts in the city,” Natasha repeated.  “When we were all in San Francisco, you agreed it was a top priority, and we should deal with them as soon as possible.  The raids took place the night of April twenty-second, and were a success. Five Hydra dens, completely cleared out.”

“But Barnes thought that wasn’t enough of a statement, so he decapitated every Hydra adherent who died that night and hid their heads in Central Park? Where were the rest of you while this was going on?”

“At the Tower,” she said.  “We didn’t learn about the decapitations until the morning of the twenty-third.”

He scrubbed his face with his hands.  This was a disaster.  Unbelievable.  He couldn’t wrap his head around it.

“Why haven’t you confined him?” he asked.

“After discussions with James and his psychiatrist, we decided it wasn’t necessary,” she said.  She laid her hand on his forearm.  “Look, Steve; it’s not great, and we would have stopped it if we could, but it’s not going to happen again.  He made a mistake that night—”

“He made a mistake!” Steve exclaimed.

“—but the rest of us made one too,” she continued.  “We knew he had concerns about whether our planned action was going to be enough to deter Hydra, but we dismissed them out of hand. We haven’t been treating him like a true Avenger.  It’s not that surprising he decided to handle this unilaterally.”

“If this is what he’s going to do, he shouldn’t be an Avenger!” Steve said.

She met his appalled gaze with equanimity.

“We’ve all made mistakes,” she said calmly.  “All of us have done things we regret.  James wouldn’t do it again.  I think that’s what matters.”

He shook his head.  He needed to destroy a punching bag or two before he tried to talk to Barnes. And he was going to _have_ to talk to Barnes, when he wanted to avoid him as much as possible. He was too upset at the moment, though—at what had happened and that the Avengers had hid it from him for nearly three weeks.

His plans for a summer in Minneapolis had been destroyed, too, and that disappointment stung.  How could he go back now?  He couldn’t justify spending three months playing at being a Real Boy while Barnes wreaked havoc and the rest of the Avengers sat back and let it happen.

And Tony…  When Tony came to see him and Sam, their last night in the Grand Canyon, he’d known. He’d known, and he hadn’t said a word.

He’d been jittery.  Steve had thought it was discomfort with showing his emotions.  Unbelievable.

“Steve,” Natasha said.  “You’re breaking the chair.”  He looked down. He’d grabbed the back of one of the living room chairs, ripped straight through the upholstery, and was bending the metal supporting structure out of shape.  He forced himself to open his grip.

This was at least a two bag problem.  Maybe three.

“I have to go,” he said.  “Let yourself out.”

“Steve?” she asked.

He was going to lose his temper if he tried to talk about this now, and he’d say or do something he’d regret.  He shook his head and left.

 

***

 

He’d gone through all three of his allotted punching bags before he was ready to talk to Barnes.  By that point, it was nearly time for lunch.

Tony, Clint, Bruce…at some point during the morning, they’d all stepped hesitantly into the gym, watched him go at the bag for a minute or two, then quietly let themselves out.  Smart guys.

Barnes didn’t come down.

Maybe he should shower and meet everyone for lunch the way Tony had planned it, but he couldn’t sit at the table with all of them while this problem was unresolved. It was even more frustrating because he’d had plans—and now he didn’t know if he could have those conversations.

Maybe not.

“JARVIS, where is Barnes?” he asked.

“Sergeant Barnes is currently in his apartment, Captain Rogers,” JARVIS replied.

“Tell him I want to see him,” Steve said.  “Have him meet me in conference room two, if it’s available. In fifteen minutes.”

He unwrapped his hands and went up to the apartment Tony had assigned him. He needed that shower.

And his uniform.  This wasn’t like the personal falling out between the two of them.  This was official Avenger business, and that meant Captain America, not Steve Rogers.  That was a tough line to draw when he was dealing with Bucky—with _Barnes_ , and he might need the reminder.

He was just getting out of the shower when JARVIS spoke.

“Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes is declining to meet currently,” he said. His voice became careful. “He suggests you write him a letter of reprimand.”

Steve took a deep breath, in and out.  Barnes was trying to work him up.  He wasn’t going to let it get to him.

Who was he kidding?  He was getting madder by the second.

“Connect me to his room,” he bit out.

“Yes, sir,” JARVIS said hastily.  Less than a second passed before he added, “Your connection to Sergeant Barnes’ quarters is open.”

“You can do this with me now, just the two of us; or you can do this with all of the Avengers in the peanut gallery,” Steve said.  “It doesn’t matter to me.  Tony just needs enough notice to pop some popcorn.”

There was a ten second silence before Barnes answered.

“If you have to ream my ass, come do it at my place, would you?  I don’t want anyone to see my sad sad tears afterwards.”

Steve grit his teeth and headed over to Barnes’ floor.

He slammed the door a little bit on his way out.  Just a little bit.

It was a sturdy door.  It could take it.

Barnes was waiting for him.  He opened the door before Steve knocked.  Then he stood in the doorway, staring incredulously.  It took about five seconds before he pasted on an insolent smirk.

“Wow,” he said.  “Uniform and everything.  If I turn over the shield now, can I skip the lecture?”

“That’s really how you want to do this,” Steve said.

“I _don’t_ want to do this!” Barnes replied.  Nevertheless he stepped out of the way and gestured Steve into the apartment.  Steve stepped in and waited until Barnes had closed the door.

“Maybe I didn’t do you any favors when I asked you to carry the shield for a few months,” he said.  “We haven’t been close since you came to the Tower.  I guess I don’t have as good idea of your state of mind as I thought I did.  I know you’re not the guy you were before the war, and I’m not asking you to be.  I’m not the same guy who put a plane in the Arctic ocean, so it’d be pretty hypocritical if I did.”

He paused to check how Barnes was taking this.  His smirk had fallen away when Steve started talking. He was close to—though not quite—standing at attention, and he was looking at the wall instead of Steve.  He looked a lot like a GI getting a dressing down from his bootcamp sergeant.

When Steve stopped talking, Barnes turned to look at him; and for all his earlier lip, he looked serious now.  Seemed like he was paying attention.

“I was thinking about my friend when I asked you to do this,” Steve continued. “He was brave, and strong, and he was always looking out for other people.  He was a good man.  I still think you have that in you.  Bucky, though—Bucky never ran from a fight, but he didn’t seek them out. He had a mean right hook and he did his duty in the Army, but he didn’t like hurting people.  Ninety-nine percent of the time, he was protecting me, pulled into a fight I’d started because I was too stubborn to stay down.”

Barnes opened his mouth like he had something to say, then closed it again with a resigned expression on his face.

“Go ahead,” Steve said.

“I don’t like hurting people,” he said.  “I was trained to do it, but I don’t like it.  That’s not why I did what I did.”

“Let’s not tiptoe around it,” Steve told him grimly.  “You perpetrated an act of terror on the people of this city, and you did it by desecrating eighty-one people’s remains. I’m not going to call them victims.  I agree that we can’t afford to show Hydra mercy.  They are perfidious, and they will grow back if they have the chance. We can’t just cut off the head, we have to burn the body to the ground.  That doesn’t mean we forget justice.  That doesn’t mean we commit atrocities.”

Barnes’ mouth had turned down, and his eyes—his earlier defenses had vanished. He seemed confused. Forlorn.  Oh, Bucky.  Seeing him like this broke Steve’s heart.

No, not Bucky.  _Barnes_.

He wasn’t Bucky anymore, and Steve needed to remember it. The man facing him wasn’t Bucky. He was a man who’d been through terrible torture and taught to think it was right.  Who’d been forced to become a weapon, but was trying to change.  He’d been a good man once, and he wanted to be that again.

Stupid of Steve to be surprised when a weapon proved to be dangerous. When he went on, his tone of voice was gentle.

“When you can do the things we can do, you have to be careful. It’s easy to become a monster.”

Barnes’ eyes glistened and his chin went up defiantly.

“That what you think I am?” he said.  “A monster?”

Steve shook his head.

“No,” he said.  “I think you did a monstrous thing.  I don’t think that’s who you are.”

Barnes looked at him, a lost expression on his face; and Steve returned his gaze steadily.  Silence fell between them.

It was a long time before Barnes broke it.

“What now?” he asked quietly.  “You taking the shield back?  The Winter Soldier doesn’t deserve to be Captain America.”

Steve tilted his head in thought.  He’d walked into the room believing that’s what he was going to do. That Barnes couldn’t carry the weight of Captain America, so Steve was going to take it back. The corner of his mouth lifted wryly.  He didn’t do it often, but he was capable of changing his mind.

“It’s not about deserving it,” he said.  “None of us deserve it.  It’s about not staying down.  It’s about getting up and trying again.  I’m not taking this from you.  For the next four months, you’re Captain America. Not just when you’re in uniform. Not just when it’s convenient. _All_ the time.”

“I can’t be you,” Barnes said belligerently.

“I don’t think you should try,” Steve said.  “I think you should try to be James Barnes.  He’s a good man.”

Barnes shook his head and looked away from Steve.  His lips thinned in a disconsolate frown.

“A good man wouldn’t have done the things the Winter Soldier did,” he said.

“The Winter Soldier is a part of who you’ve been,” Steve said. “That’s not going away.” He paused before carefully placed his hand on Barnes’ shoulder.  “Are you going to let him define you for the rest of your life?”

Barnes jerked his head up and stared at Steve.  Steve smiled at him and tightened his grip on Barnes’ shoulder gently before letting go.

“Take a minute if you need to, but don’t forget Tony’s buying lunch,” he said. “I’ll see you there.” Barnes nodded tightly. It felt a little like a salute. Steve returned his nod and left.

As he was closing the apartment door, he thought he heard a quiet whisper.

“You deserve it, Stevie.”

Of course it was his imagination.  That’s where his Bucky lived, and Bucky had always believed in him.

Things would never be the same between them.  But it felt good to return the favor.

 

***

 

The gathered Avengers stopped talking when Steve walked into the dining room to watch him guardedly.

“I’m still mad at you,” he told them.  That, perversely, made them relax; and he frowned.

“Mad is just a step up from your default state of pissy,” Tony said. “It’s the disappointment face that’s a killer.”

Steve scowled at him, but he was relieved that Barnes did seem to be under control, and he was glad to see them.  After a few seconds, he huffed and pulled Tony into a hug.

“Stop, no, bad touch,” Tony protested.  But he was hesitantly returning Steve’s hug, so Steve ignored him.

The mood at lunch was light-hearted and the conversation cheery. Barnes came in about ten minutes late.  He kept his eyes down, and exchanging quiet greetings, he was silent for the rest of the meal.

He was going to miss it when he returned to Minneapolis.  He was going to miss all of it:  Tony’s sarcastic humor, Bruce’s mellow responses, Clint’s quiet skepticism, Natasha’s watchful scrutiny…It felt like Steve was home.

Barnes had remained subdued through most of the meal, but Steve supposed that was only natural.  He had a lot more hope that the two of them would be able to build a collegial respect when Steve returned to the Tower, and to the Avengers.  Barnes had taken his dressing down well for someone who’d started out hostile.  It hadn’t been easy, but Steve had said what he had to say; and Barnes had listened, and seemed to have taken it seriously.  This wary distance was probably as good as could be expected between the two of them for the time being.

He’d come back to New York planning to have a difficult conversation, one that might affect his future with the Avengers; but on a completely different subject.  That hadn’t happened; but it was Sunday afternoon, and he didn’t return to Minneapolis until Monday evening.  There was still time.

He swallowed hard.  There was a lot riding on this for him.  But some things had to be said, no matter how hard it might be to hear the answer. Not to mention: no one else was finding out the way Tony had.  Absolutely not.

“I have this—for six months, there’s a group I’m supposed to meet with Sunday evenings.  I wanted to invite you all to join me tonight.”

“You make it sound like court-ordered community service,” Barnes said.

“In a way,” he admitted.  “It’s a penance.”

Barnes rolled his eyes.  “This is Mass, isn’t it?” 

Steve nodded.  “Yeah, but—“

“No thanks,” Barnes cut in.  “We’ve talked about that before.  I don’t do that kind of thing.”

Natasha winced at Barnes’ curt dismissal, but shook her head as well.

“I’ve never been in a church in my life—not to worship.  I wouldn’t feel comfortable.”

Clint looked at her with a furrowed brow before returning his attention to Steve.

“Rain check?” he said.

Steve nodded unhappily.  So much for ripping off the bandaid all at once.

But Bruce—Bruce looked at Tony, who was doing his best not to explode in fury, and turned to Steve.  “I’ll go,” he said.  “Do I need to dress up?”

Steve’s smile was relieved and nervous at the same time.

“No,” he said.  “It’s casual. Thanks, Bruce. I’ll be glad of the company.”

They agreed to meet beforehand in the Tower’s lobby, and Steve left. In a way, he was relieved that he wouldn’t have to face everyone’s reactions all at once.

On the other hand, this meant he’d have to figure out some other way to tell the rest of them:  Natasha, Clint; Thor, when next he came.

 

Barnes.

***

 

Bruce’s reaction a few minutes after arriving was:  “Dignity?”  After a short pause, he read aloud a slogan from a nearby poster: “ _rejoicing in our lives as proud Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, and Queer persons and our friends_.”

He turned to search Steve’s face.  Steve met his gaze squarely.  Nodded.

“I’m honored to be invited,” Bruce said.

Steve exhaled hard and smiled.

“Anyone in particular you wanted me—us—to meet?” Bruce asked.

Steve took a deep breath.  “Not here,” he said.  “He’s—I met him on my trip.  He lives in Minneapolis.”

Bruce nodded, and then he smiled.  “We get to vet him, you know.  Harassing a friend’s boyfriend is an important responsibility. If he comes to the city, you’ll have to bring him round to meet everyone.”

Steve’s smile widened.  “Maybe later,” he said.  “I don’t want to spring him on everyone without any warning.”  He paused.  “I was hoping more would come tonight.”

“You know the others will be fine with this,” Bruce said.

“Tony knows,” Steve said.  “I guess you could see he was—he’s protective, obviously.  And he’s been great.  Sam knows too.  Thor and Natasha and Clint…I’m only a little worried.  But…”

“James,” Bruce said.  Steve nodded.

“I have no idea how he’ll take it,” he said.  “And—he’s not my friend anymore, but he was.  If he doesn’t…”  He sighed.  “I think that would be hard.  Another piece of my old friend lost.”  He scrubbed his face.  “Guess I’ll find out eventually.”

“Word of advice,” Bruce said.  “Don’t put off telling Natasha too long.”

The corner of Steve’s mouth quirked.  “I’ll see if she’ll join me for coffee tomorrow,” he promised.

***

 

Steve took Bruce’s advice and texted Natasha after the service.

_Meet me at Battery Park tomorrow morning, near the Liberty Island shuttle dock?  8:00? I’ll bring coffee._

Her reply came moments later:  **_8:30 none of your cheap coffee_**

_Will do.  See you then._

 

He took a deep breath.  It couldn’t possibly be worse than Tony finding out the way he had, he reminded himself.  And Natasha wouldn’t kill him in public.

Not much, anyway.  Maybe she’d help him tell Clint?  And then there’d be only Thor left, and everyone else would know.  He’d have support.

Assuming he’d figured out a way to tell Barnes by then, everyone would know by that point.  He sighed. It was turning into a mantra: as long as nobody else found out the way Tony had.  That was true for everyone.

Doubly so for Barnes.  He wished he didn’t care so much about that one man’s opinion.

 

***

 

When he arrived at Battery Park, Natasha was waiting.

“I thought you wanted to meet at 8:30,” he said, handing her her coffee.

“I wanted to be here first,” she said.  “But I also wanted to sleep until 6:30.  This way I could do both.”

He shook his head with a smile.  “This is why I had to leave town to think things over.  Because otherwise you would know what’s in my head before I do.” 

“As it should be,” she said with a smile.

He gestured to the walk bordering the water.  “Walk with me?”

She inclined her head and turned onto the sidewalk.

“This must be something big,” she said.  “I assume that’s why we’re here instead of the Tower or a coffee shop.”

“It’s a nice walk,” he replied.  “Great views.  I come here a lot.” He paused to sip his coffee. “But you’re right. It’s a—a sensitive topic, I guess.” 

“It is a nice view,” she agreed.  She drank some of her coffee and waited.

“I know you like to keep track of my progress in adjusting to modern life,” he said.  “And have a—let’s call it a friendly interest—in my dating life.”

She raised an eyebrow.  “Been getting some practice?” she asked.  “Is this about piercings and tattoos?  Someone you met on your trip?  I’m proud of you.”

“Not exactly,” he said, and took a deep breath before stopping.

Natasha stopped walking as well.  She looked intrigued.

“You want to tell me about her, or do you want me to guess?” she asked. “Twenty questions?”

“Not a chance,” Steve replied, the corner of his mouth quirking up. He took another deep breath. He was halfway there, and Natasha was his friend.  He could do this.

“I learned a lot on my road trip,” he said.

“You’ve mentioned,” she replied.

“When I was in Minneapolis, the first time,” he continued.  “I had an interesting conversation. Learned a word I’d never heard before.  It was enlightening.”

“Umm hmm,” she murmured, taking a sip of her coffee.

“The word was bisexual,” he said, and held his breath.

She looked at him sharply.

“Rogers, are you telling me that all this time I’ve been trying to set you up with someone, I’ve been working with only half of the available pool?”

“In my defense, I didn’t know at the time,” he said.

“On a scale of one to seven, how far have I been off?” she asked. He frowned at her. “The Kinsey scale?”

He shook his head.  “Don’t know it.”

“Who’s better looking:  Pepper or Thor?” she asked.

“They’re both very attractive people,” Steve hedged.  She raised an eyebrow, and he sighed.

“Thor,” he said.  “Please don’t tell him.”

“Name the five most attractive S.H.I.E.L.D. employees,” she said. “Not including me.”

“You would be top of the list, of course,” he said.  He thought for a minute.

“Sitwell, Carter, Brooks, Hill.”  He smiled sheepishly at her.  “Clint.” She raised an eyebrow, then hit him on the brow of his baseball cap so it came down over his eyes.

“Is this about Clint or something else?” he asked as he readjusted it.

“Tony knew first,” she said.  “Didn’t he?”

Steve blushed.  She tilted her head and looked closely at him.

“That’s a story I want to hear,” she said.

“Not if I can help it,” he replied.  He smiled at her and shifted his feet a little.  She leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

“Thank you for telling me,” she said.  She began walking again, and he did also.

“It’s a shame Sitwell turned out to be Hydra,” she said after a minute. “I’m pretty sure he had a crush on you for a while.”

“Well, he did turn out to be Hydra, so it’s just as well,” Steve said. “I can’t believe you’re trying to set me up retroactively.”

“Just sounding some things out,” she said.  “He _was_ first on your list.”  She took another sip of coffee.  “And Brooks, too—  Is that a thing?”

“Is what a thing?” he asked.  “Bald guys?  Clint’s hair is short, but he has plenty of it.  Thor’s hair is long.  Guys with hair are attractive.”  She nodded, looking out at the water.  He turned to watch the river as well.

“I hadn’t realized,” he admitted.  “I might have a thing.  Not an all-encompassing thing.  A minor thing.”

“But a thing,” she said.  “What else?  Smart—except for Thor.” He frowned at her, and she grinned.  “Educated a plus, but not required.  Age preference?”

“There are a limited number of people older than me on this planet, and even fewer of them still have their teeth,” he said.  “What are you doing?  Putting together a personal ad?”

“Yes,” she said, ‘of course’ implicit in her tone.

“You don’t need to do that,” he told her.

“Of course I do!” she said.  “You’re too cautious.  You need a push.”

“No,” he said.  “I mean, you don’t need to do that.”

She turned away from the water to look at him, her eyes sparkling, and linked her arm in his to lead him down the walk again.  “Oh?  Do tell.”

“We’re not gossiping about boys,” he said.  “That’s not going to happen.”

“Of course not,” she replied, humoring him.

He sighed and started to tell her how he met Hansen.  He felt light inside.  He had some great friends.  He couldn’t believe he hadn’t known how much they cared about him.

He was a pretty lucky guy.

 

***

 

When they got back to the Tower, Natasha suggested he should come up to Clint’s place with her.

“Then I can be there when you tell him,” she said.  “For moral support.  Not that you need it; he’s not going to care.  But you might as well tell him now.”

“Because the sooner he knows, the sooner you can make fun of me in front of him,” Steve said dryly.

She smiled and patted his arm.

“You know me so well.”

She was right, too.  Having someone who already knew and supported him there made coming out to Clint easy.

Embarrassing, but easy.

“So,” Steve said.  “I have something I want to talk about.  Because I figured out something about myself while I was gone, and it could affect the Avengers—“

Natasha cut him off.

“What do you think?” she asked Clint.  “Steve could’ve had a shot with Sitwell, right? If he had admitted to himself that he was bi, before the Project Insight mess.”

Steve closed his eyes and tried to disappear.

All right; he peeked at Clint’s expression.

Clint acted like she’d asked if the Dodgers had a chance at the pennant.

“If he hadn’t been a two-faced Hydra snake, you mean?” he asked thoughtfully. He looked at Steve and nodded, so Steve stopped trying to pretend he wasn’t visible.  “Sure.  You could’ve hit that.”  He shrugged.  “Sitwell was a picky s.o.b., but, Steve—“  He leaned forward and pinned Steve with a serious gaze.  “You’re a modest guy, but when you’re dating, you need to know where you stand.  And most people would say you could do better.”  His face grew even more solemn.  Steve was pretty sure he was laughing at him.  “You’re Captain America.  You’re patriotic, good-looking, nice muscles; there’s the hero thing…  Aside from Thor, most people on the planet are going to be a step down.  I think you have more than a shot with any guy who likes men.”  He paused. “Maybe not John Barrowman. He’s disgustingly happily married.”

“I didn’t want to date Sitwell,” Steve said.  “Natasha asked me to name the most attractive former S.H.I.E.L.D. employees.  I was answering the question.”

Clint looked at Natasha.  She nodded calmly.  Clint pumped his fist.

“For the record, if I were not in a committed relationship, I would definitely date you, too,” he told Steve.

Steve turned red.  Clint turned back to Natasha.

“You know who would have killed to date him,” he said.  “Phil.”

“Phil had a no office relationships policy,” Natasha said.

“He’s straighter than an Iowa horizon, too,” Clint said.  “But I’m pretty damn sure he would have made an exception for Captain America.”

Natasha tilted her head to the side and looked at Steve.

“He does have that nice receding hairline,” she told him.

Steve stood.

“I’ll leave you to your fun,” he said.  “I’m happy with the guy I have.  I’m not looking to trade him in.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a little speculation,” she said archly.

“Don’t set me up on any ‘surprise’ dates,” he replied.  He turned to Clint.  “Thanks.  For taking it so well.”

Clint shrugged.

“I’m happy for you, Cap,” he said.  “You ever want to talk about it, come find me.  I won’t even tell Natasha.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow at him, and Steve took the chance to slip out the door.

Tony, Sam, Bruce, Natasha, Clint.  All of them had been great.  Not just accepting—understanding, and supportive, and…It felt really good. And now, the only Avengers he still had to tell were Thor and Barnes.

As it turned out, Thor showed up around lunchtime.  When the sky darkened unexpectedly, Steve went to wait at the landing pad.  Thor greeted him with a strong grip on his forearm.

“I remembered that you would return to Minneapolis today,” he said. “I thought to spend some time with my comrades while you were all here.  I will return to London on the morrow.”

“Thanks for stopping by,” Steve said.  “In time for lunch, I notice.”

“Nay,” Thor replied with a smile.  “London is six hours ahead of New York.  I am in time for dinner.”

Steve laughed.  “I’ll let Tony know. I think he had plans for soup and salad.  Maybe we can at least get you a sandwich.”

“I have already informed Mister Stark of Thor’s arrival,” JARVIS interrupted smoothly.  “I will suggest that a heartier meal would be appreciated.”

“My thanks to you,” Thor told him.

Steve regarded Thor a moment.  He seemed relaxed and happy after his time with Jane.  Steve hadn’t thought before that Thor seemed _un_ happy when he first arrived from Asgard, but…his eyes were often shadowed then in a way they weren’t anymore.

“Doctor Foster is good for you,” he said.  “You seem happy.”

Thor smiled.  “I am. The Lady Jane is a balm to my spirits.  She brings great joy to my life.  I only hope I do the same for her.”

“I think you must,” Steve said.  “She doesn’t seem the type to let you hang around if she didn’t like you.”

Thor laughed.  “Indeed, she is not! When provoked, her wrath is mighty.”

They never knew how long Thor would be able to stay on Earth, and he spent a lot of the time he was here in London…  He shouldn’t put off telling Thor.

“Listen, Thor,” he said.  “Could I talk to you about something a little private before lunch?”

“My ears are yours,” Thor replied.

Steve nodded.  “JARVIS? I was thinking about using the lounge off the landing platform.  Is anyone heading in that direction?”

“No, Captain,” JARVIS said.  “Would you like me to warn you should someone approach?”

“Please,” Steve said.  “And engage privacy mode until Thor and I are done.”

He gestured for Thor to precede him into the lounge.

“Of course, Captain,” JARVIS said.  “Engaging privacy mode now.”

“Do you want a drink?” Steve asked Thor.  “I’m guessing a trans-Atlantic flight might leave a guy thirsty.”

“Thank you,” Thor said.  “I would. Ale?”

“Got it,” Steve said.  He grabbed two beers from the bar and sat down on one of the slick chairs near the fireplace.  Thor took the neighboring chair and regarded Steve attentively.

Steve took a deep breath.  Thor was a good guy; forthright and more sensitive than he seemed at first meeting. Steve liked him. He trusted him. He thought he could trust him with this.

“I don’t know what you think on Asgard,” he began.  “About…well, about sex.”

“Most of us approve,” Thor said with a smile.  “I most certainly count myself in that number.”

“That wasn’t exactly what I meant; but I’m not sure how to say this, exactly,” Steve said.  “And—you don’t have to volunteer any information. I don’t mean to pry into something private. I’m trying to tell you something. About myself.”

Thor’s brow furrowed, but he nodded.

“I…Most people here stick to the opposite gender,” Steve said. “That’s the ‘traditional way,’ I guess.  But some people aren’t attracted to the opposite sex that way.”

“Yes, as I said,” Thor said.  “On Asgard as well, there are those who do not care for congress of this sort.” He paused.  “Loki was one such.”

“Some people are like that here, too,” Steve said.  “But that wasn’t quite what I’m getting at. Here…some people here are attracted to their same gender.  And some like both.”

Thor’s frown deepened.

“I have heard whispers only of such a thing,” he said slowly. “It is not done on Asgard. Neither the All-Father nor my mother Frigga would approve.”  His frown grew melancholy.  “Would have approved.”

Steve winced.  “Not everyone approves here, but plenty do.  In both New York and London, two men or two women could get married to each other if they wanted.  Though I think they call it something different in London.”

“No children would come of such a union,” Thor protested.

“No, though they could adopt some, or—there are ways.”  Steve shook his head.  Well, they couldn’t all be easy.  “Will it be a problem for you?  To accept that some people are like that here?”

“I don’t know,” Thor said.  “How will I know until I have met a Midgardian with such strange yearnings?”

Steve winced again.  Yeah, this wasn’t going to be easy.

“You have,” he said.  “I’m one of the ones who likes both.”

He waited.

Thor stared at him.

“You—like _both_ ,” he repeated.

Steve nodded.

“But how can you?” Thor asked.  He didn’t sound mad or offended, at least; only puzzled.  “When a woman’s form holds such loveliness, and their spirits are so gentle?”

“‘Gentle spirits’…” Steve repeated.  “Thor, have you _met_ Natasha?  Doctor Foster, for that matter?  Your friend from Asgard—Sif?  I think they all have gentle _sides_ , but there’s more to them than that.  Women can be hard or violent, too.  And men can be gentle.”

“Yes,” Thor agreed.  “I have often thought you so.  You are just to your enemies, and kind to those who are weak.”  He paused.  “Perhaps that is why you have believed yourself to desire men.  You want what is gentle in them.”

“I do value gentleness,” Steve said.  “But the other—the desire—it’s not about that.  I…  Men’s…forms…are also ’lovely.’  To me.”

“You find the forms of men lovely,” Thor repeated.

Steve closed his eyes.  Thor _was_ smart, despite Natasha’s teasing remarks to the contrary; but sometimes they ran into a cultural difference, and then…For a race which had contact with so many different peoples from so many different places, Asgardians were set in their ways.  Not judgmental, exactly.  Just…set.

“Think about it,” Steve said.  “For now, while Barnes is Captain America; it’s not an issue.  But I plan to come back.  I hope we can work together when I do.”

“Of course we will,” Thor said.  He wasn’t looking at Steve, though.  His gaze was fixed somewhere around his knees.  “You are a valiant warrior and we have fought side by side before.  I did not know this; but it was true before, was it not?  It will make no difference.”

“Thanks, Thor,” Steve said.  Not easy, but not too bad either.  Not the worst reaction Thor could have.  He stood.  “Let’s see if Tony has lunch ready.  Well—if Pepper and JARVIS have lunch ready.”

Thor nodded, but he didn’t look up and he didn’t stand.  Steve’s worry twisted up his insides pretty quick.

“Thor?” he asked.  “You don’t seem okay with it.”

“I am merely thinking,” he said.  “You have—I am reminded that this world is a different place.”

Steve nodded.  He’d said what he had to say.  If Thor needed some time to think before he made up his mind, at least he was thinking.

Not the best, but not the worst case scenario by any means.  He could live with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Curious? Can't remember what those folks Steve rates for Natasha look like?](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/120781302303/so-i-promised-to-link-pictures-of-the-former)
> 
> And, for those who may have missed it, [Hansen](http://salviag.tumblr.com/post/89353687198/ill-post-chapter-four-of-like-a-cruel-mistress)


	57. I Would Speak With You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold: And There was Steve/Thor; and The Author Said: It Was Good.
> 
> (You are so _very_ welcome.)

***

 

_May 12_

 

Steve texted Hansen while he waited for the plane back to Minneapolis to finish its take off routine.

 

_You busy tomorrow night?_

 

**_I don't know might be washing my hair_ **

 

_Funny guy.  I’ll make it worth your while._

 

**_Tell me more baby_ **

****

_Can I talk you into dinner at my place?_

After a pause, he added:

_Came out to the Avengers._

 

**_!?!!?!! Good for you!  How'd it go?_ **

 

_They were great. Thor was a little confused, but it’ll be okay._

_Have dinner with me tomorrow & I'll tell you about it._

 

**_I see what you're doing_ **

**_pretty sneaky there_ **

_Who me?_

_Nah; just stubborn._

_I’ll be done at the VA at 6:00; probably at my place by 6:30._

****

**_Twist my arm a little_ **

_You into that?_

****

**_Could be_ **

**_Depends on the guy doing the twisting_ **

_I do like a challenge._

 

**_Something we have in common_ **

_Is that right?  Good to know._

_I thought you might teach me to make those polenta nests with the egg in the middle.  I liked those a lot._

****

**_Not exactly what I meant by a challenge but I could be talked into it.  For dinner though?_ **

_Why not?_

****

**_No reason I guess_ **

**_I'll send you a grocery list_ **

**_See you tomorrow_ **

_I'm looking forward to it._

****

**_Me too.  Been thinking about you, Brooklyn_ **

_Yeah. Same here._

 

***

_May 13th_

 

By the time Steve pulled up in the alley behind his apartment, it was more like six-forty.  Hansen and Dan were sitting in the backyard chatting while Dan grilled sausage and sweet peppers.  Steve walked over and inhaled deeply.

“Those polenta things are really more of a breakfast food,” he told Hansen. “Maybe we should invite ourselves to share Dan’s dinner.”

Dan smiled.

“You’re welcome to,” he said.  “I have a couple extra burgers I could throw on the grill.”

Hansen shook his head.

“Thanks, Dan, but you haven’t seen him eat,” he said.  “A couple burgers aren’t gonna cut it.” He stood, facing Steve, and tugged on Steve’s belt loops until their bodies were aligned.  “Besides, I’m kinda looking forward to a private dinner.”  He smiled, sly and sultry.  “Hello, Brooklyn.”

He couldn’t believe he was dating this guy.  Steve better learn fast if he wanted to hold his own.

“Hey,” he replied hoarsely.

Steve leaned in for a kiss he intended to be mostly chaste, since Hansen’s nephew was sitting about a yard away.  That wasn’t what Hansen had in mind.  His hands slipped from Steve’s belt loops along his hips and into the back pockets of Steve’s jeans, firmly pulling Steve’s hips even closer to his.  He coaxed Steve’s mouth open with his own, and Steve couldn’t remember why he’d thought it was a good idea to hold back.  He dropped the bag of groceries he was carrying, wrapped his arms around Hansen, and did what he did best:  jumped in.

He’d always been a fast learner, and even more so after the serum. He did his best to entice Hansen’s kiss deeper; and if Steve was panting with desire, Hansen’s low growl suggested he was feeling the same.  Steve’s hands—one centered on Hansen’s back, one lower, at the dip in his spine—tightened.

“Oh my God, get a room,” Dan interjected.  “Hey, I know—how about you take it to Steve’s place before you’re charged with indecent conduct?”

Hansen broke their kiss to leer playfully at Dan, but he didn’t step back or move his hands off Steve’s ass.  Steve could feel himself blushing.  He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten Dan was right there.

“Yeah, I’d hate to shock my pure, innocent nephew,” Hansen chuckled. “Remind me how many times I’ve bailed you out of jail again?”

“So I got an M.I.P. or two,” Dan said.  “You’re corrupting a national icon."

“The way I remember it, it was disorderly conduct, misdemeanor property damage, and at least three M.I.P.s,” Hansen replied.  “But we’ll take our gay kissing upstairs if it’s giving you the vapors.”

“It’s more what if the neighbors decide to be nosy, but I am feeling a little traumatized,” Dan told him.  “You were groping Captain America’s ass right in front of my young and impressionable eyes!”

Steve’s face was burning now.  He wasn’t as mortified as he’d been when Tony caught him with Jeff, but the longer the conversation went on, the worse it got.  At this rate, it would get that bad pretty soon.  He picked up his bag of groceries and took Hansen’s hand, tugging him towards the stairs to the garage apartment.

“Stop antagonizing my landlord,” he told Hansen.  “Sorry, Dan.  Have a good evening.”

“Night, Steve,” Dan replied.  “You know I’m just teasing, right?  But some of the neighbors have a pretty good view into the yard from their second floors.  I don’t think anybody’s going to be offended you’re kissing, but if somebody recognizes you… You might want to be careful.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Steve said.  “Some Peeping Tom’s stealth video posted on YouTube isn’t how I want to come out.”

“You’re lucky he’s a nice guy,” Hansen told Dan.  “I’m tempted to see what it would take to drive you inside.”

“Whatever,” Dan said.  “You’re all talk and you know it.”

Hansen grinned and shrugged.

“So I got carried away,” he said.  “Can you blame me?”  Steve pulled harder on his hand and started towards his place.  Hansen allowed himself to be tugged along.

“Good _night_ , Uncle Carmine,” Dan said.

“Night, Dan,” Hansen called back.  “Love you.”

“Love you too, you old lech,” Dan replied.  Hansen laughed and followed Steve up the stairs to his apartment.

The minute the door shut behind them, he stepped into Steve’s space and had his hands on Steve’s hips again.

“That was okay, right?” he asked.  “We didn’t embarrass you too bad?  Dan and I don’t pull our punches much.”

“I’ll survive,” Steve replied with a quirk of his lips.  He set his groceries on the counter and slid his own hands onto Hansen’s hips and closing the space between them. “How hungry are you?” he asked. “I was thinking maybe you could corrupt me a little more before dinner.”

“I could be persuaded,” Hansen said.  He slid his hands back to cup Steve’s ass.  Steve arched his back, pushing into Hansen’s hands, and Hansen groaned. “C’mere, you.”

Steve lowered his head for another of Hansen’s seductive kisses, sinking in, immersing himself in the movements of their mouths…until the sunlight streaming through his windows grew dark and thunder rolled out of nowhere.  Steve pulled away and frowned out the window at the roiling gray clouds.

“We’re not expecting bad weather, are we?” he asked.  Hansen shook his head.

“I don’t know where the hell this came from,” he said.

“I might have an idea,” Steve said.  “Wait here, okay?”

Hansen raised an eyebrow.

“Well now I’m curious,” he said.  “You’re being evasively mysterious, Brooklyn.”

“Could be nothing,” Steve said.  He opened the door and peered out into the sudden storm.  “But.”  He looked back at Hansen, giving him half a shrug.  “Could be Thor.”

Hansen shook his head.

“Your life is unreal,” he said.  “I’ll get started on dinner.  If there’s some kind of emergency, tell me before you go anywhere?”

“Of course,” Steve said.  He didn’t think it was an emergency, though.  Tony or Natasha would have contacted him directly if he was needed for Avenger business.  They wouldn’t have sent Thor.

But he was ninety-five percent sure this was Thor; and if it was, he was a little worried about why he was here.  It was the middle of the night in London, and the last thing he and Thor had talked about was Steve’s sexuality.

Thor had said it would be fine, but maybe he had decided it was a problem after all.

A moment later, lightning struck right in the center of Dan’s yard. The accompanying thunder was deafening.  Steve winced. Dan seemed proud of his tiny lawn.  He wasn’t going to be keen on having one of Thor’s patterns burned into it.

“Jesus Christ,” Hansen said.  He peered past Steve into the rapidly dissipating rain.  “That was right here!”

Steve nodded.  “Thor.” As the clouds rolled away, he sighed and went down the steps to learn the reason for his friend’s unexpected visit to Minneapolis.

Steve hoped they were still friends, anyway.

Thor was waiting for him by the pines at the base of the stairs. His face was solemn.

“Captain,” he said.  “I would speak with you, if I may.”

Steve nodded.  “Come on up.”

Thor followed him up the steps.  He stood in the doorway and surveyed Steve’s apartment slowly until he saw Hansen.  Frowning slightly, Thor stepped into the room without looking away from him. His gaze wasn’t quite a glare, but it didn’t falter.

Thor was usually friendlier.  Steve took a deep breath and shut the door behind them.

“Thor, this is my friend Hansen,” he said.  “Hansen, Thor.”

Thor nodded crisply. 

“Nice to meet you,” Hansen said automatically.  He seemed stunned.

Well, Thor was a stunning kind of guy.

Steve turned to him expectantly.

“May we speak in private?” Thor asked.

“Sure,” Steve said.  “Hansen, do you mind going over to Dan’s for a while?”

“Not a problem,” Hansen replied.  He stepped close to Steve, and added in a low voice, “You okay with this?  I can stay if you need me to.”

Steve let the corner of his lip quirk.

“Gonna protect me from the big guy with a hammer?” he murmured. “Go on.  Not sure what this is about, but it’ll be fine.”

Hansen chuckled softly and turned to Thor, extending his hand to shake.  He flinched when Thor took it in his own hand.  Steve winced in sympathy.  Usually Thor remembered to moderate his strength, but it seemed like today he was distracted.

“I am pleased to meet you as well, son of Han,” Thor said.

Hansen pulled his hand away and covertly shook it.

“I like the armor,” he said.  “It’s a good look on you.  Not everybody could pull that off.”  He smirked over his shoulder at Steve. “You ever tried it on for size? I wouldn’t mind seeing that.”

Steve rolled his eyes.

“Get outta here,” he said.  “Go steal some of Dan’s dinner.”

“I’m gonna pick up something for the both of us,” Hansen replied. “I think tonight’s cooking lesson’s a wash.  We’ll do it another time, okay?  I’ll harass Dan until you let me know you’re ready for me to come back.”  With one last grin, he left.

Steve awkwardly waved Thor over to the sofa.  Thor followed him but didn’t sit down when Steve did. Instead he stood facing Steve, a deep frown on his face.

Damn.  He hoped Thor had questions, not problems.

“I’m listening,” Steve said.

“I spoke with my Lady Jane,” Thor told him.  “Of what you revealed to me yesterday.”

“Wait,” Steve said.  “About me specifically?  Or about bisexuality in general?”

“We spoke of both,” Thor replied.  “Of you, and of what you told me concerning finding men as well as women pleasing.”

“Thor—“ Steve began heatedly, then he paused. He took a deep breath and reined in his temper.  He couldn’t get angry at Thor about telling Doctor Foster.  Thor had said same sex attraction wasn’t accepted on Asgard. Human bisexuality was a new idea to him, and Steve had shocked him when he had come out to him. He’d reacted well, considering. Steve hadn’t asked Thor to keep it to himself, either—that was on him, not Thor.

He was fixing that mistake right now.

“This isn’t the kind of thing you talk about with people unless you’re sure they already know it,” he told Thor. “Please don’t tell anyone else. It’s not a secret, exactly; but it’s personal, and I want to be able to tell people in my own way and my own time.  Very few people know this about me.  Barnes doesn’t know yet, and I don’t want him to find out from somebody else.  And the public reaction, the media—it’s likely to be big.  I don’t want it all over the newsstands and TV and internet before I’m ready for that.”

Thor began to pace.

“Forgive me for having offended thusly,” he said. “I assure you, my Lady Jane is discreet.  She will not gossip regarding what she has learned, but I will speak to her of your desire for secrecy.”  He turned to grimace apologetically at Steve.  “I fear the Lady Darcy was also present for our conversation.  On my return to London, I will express to her the importance of telling no one else.”

Steve sighed and ran a frustrated hand through his hair.

“Thanks,” he said.  “That’s the best we can do, I guess.”  He paused to watch as Thor began to pace again.  “You want to sit down and talk about what’s bothering you?  It’s two-thirty in the morning in London.  You didn’t come all this way to tell me you’d outed me to Doctor Foster and her friend.”

Thor sighed heavily.

“Sometimes my brain turns, and my body must move to keep pace. I am…I find I am in turmoil.”

“About what we talked about yesterday,” Steve said grimly.

“Yes.”  Thor stopped walking and scrubbed his face with his hands.  “Captain.  Steven.” He stepped closer. “What you said: both, you said. You said you desired both, that the forms of men as well as women were lovely to your eye.” Hesitantly, he sat on the sofa next to Steve and continued.

“I thought, ‘how is such a thing possible?’  This is the question I took to my Lady Jane. I have been thinking on it.”  He seemed uncertain.  It was a strange look on Thor, who was always so confident and assured.

“And then I thought, what would two men do, should they share a bed?”  He looked intently at Steve.  “I cannot stop thinking about it.”

“Mostly the same as a man and a woman, I guess,” Steve said. “You don’t have to have all the—the opposite parts—to make your partner feel good.”

Thor closed his eyes for a moment.  When he opened them…

Steve’s breath caught and that shock ran through him.

Thor—

He didn’t.  He couldn’t, could he?

“I want that,” Thor said.  “It is ever running in my mind.  I cannot stop thinking of you, naked, with another man.   I cannot stop thinking of what I would do to you if I—of how I would touch you.”

Steve stuttered.  “Thor—“

Thor closed the distance between them and grasped Steve’s nape with one of his large hands, pulling Steve close to him, so close their foreheads touched.

“I would touch you,” he said, his voice breaking. “I would strip off your garments and seek pleasure in the coming together of our bodies.”

Steve whimpered.  “Doctor Foster—“ he tried.

“This is what I told her,” Thor said.  “I told her I did not understand:  I love her well and desire her deeply, that I had no wish to cleave to another; and yet—“  His hand tightened on Steve’s nape, and he tilted his head slightly, tracing his nose along Steve’s cheekbone in a soft caress that felt like a static shock.  “I also hunger for you.  The more I think on it, so grows my hunger.”

“She didn’t slap you for it?” Steve asked.  His breathing was fast and shallow, his heart racing. He should pull away.

But.

Thor.  Honorable, proud, fearless Thor; prince of Asgard, his ally and friend…

How was he supposed to resist _Thor_?

Thor laughed at Steve's question.

“It is a reasonable fear,” he told Steve.  “She has done so before, angered that I came to your planet only to battle the Chitauri and capture Loki, and did not see her then; and that much time passed before I returned to her.  But her reaction to this confession was most unlike that one.”

“Yeah?” Steve breathed.  Thor shifted, and his lips moved gently against Steve’s temple.

“She said I had to 'hit that,’” he murmured. “She said she would pay to see the two of us together.”  He exhaled slightly as he chuckled.  It tingled along his nerves like each of Steve’s hairs were standing on end.

“She was most enthusiastic.  She will want only that I tell her what transpires between us. The Lady Darcy mentioned pictures, but I do not believe my Lady Jane will insist.”

Thor pulled back enough to catch Steve’s gaze.  “I remain promised to her.  She is my love, and I do not seek another. But you are my friend, brave and true; a better man than any other I have met, and most comely. I want you, and I think it not misguided to hope you hunger as I do.”

He leaned in slowly.  Steve knew he should stop him, but…

Hansen had _said_ Steve should date other people.  He’d said that Steve had skipped a lot of steps between sharing a kiss with somebody and committing to an exclusive relationship with that person.  That he felt like he was taking something from Steve.

When it had been some faceless “somebody else” Hansen had thought Steve should try, he hadn’t wanted that at all.  But this wasn’t an anonymous hook up and it wasn’t meaningless. This was Thor.

He knew what the super soldier serum had given him.  He knew what people saw when they looked at him. He was the pinnacle of humanity. He wasn’t vain about it. It was the serum, and he’d done nothing to earn it.

But Thor—his handsome face, his perfectly muscled body, his charismatic bearing…Thor was so far beyond mere human perfection—

And Steve didn’t love him the way he loved Peggy or Bucky or the way he was coming to love Hansen, but as a trusted brother-in-arms…

He tilted his head and surged forward to meet Thor halfway.

Thor’s kiss was different from Hansen’s. Hansen was gentle, slow, and skilled. He seduced Steve until Steve couldn’t resist. Thor—

Thor wasn’t gentle.  Thor consumed him.  Not deliberately or domineeringly; but he was a prince of Asgard, and he kissed like one.  He accepted Steve’s surrender as if it were his due.

And Steve:  he wasn’t the kind of guy who sat back and surrendered, but he wasn’t the most experienced guy in the world.  He’d gained some confidence with Hansen, though; and he did his best to apply some of what he’d learned.  When Steve’s tongue flicked against his, Thor inhaled sharply and it felt like a spark.  Thor’s beard prickled his palms softly as Steve held his face, a gentle hum beneath his hands. Heat flared between them, fast like lightning.  Steve wanted to pour himself into the blaze and see how hot it could grow.

The thought of Hansen held him back.

Hansen had said Steve should date other people, but this wasn’t that; and whatever this was, he wasn’t going to do it while his boyfriend sat waiting in his nephew’s apartment.  As electrifying as the heat between him and Thor was—beyond their friendship, that was all Thor offered him. Thor’s heart already belonged to Jane Foster.

He wasn’t going to mess things up with Hansen just because he lusted for a friend, no matter how handsome and admirable a friend it was.  No matter how good it was between them.

He pulled away with a gasp.

“We can’t,” he said.  “Hansen—I invited him for dinner.  He was here on a date.”  He closed his eyes and took a slow, deliberate breath before opening his eyes again and looking at Thor directly.  “I’m flattered, and I guess you can tell that I want you, too.  But…”

Thor smiled.

“Do not apologize,” he said.  “I descended on you in a flurry, so lustful have I been, without thinking that I would interrupt your plans.  I will leave you and return to London.” He took Steve’s hand in his, caressing it with his thumb, little sparks of sensation.  “Only consider:  perhaps, when next you go to New York, if we might meet again. There is something between us worth exploring, I think.”  He smiled seductively and began to raise Steve’s hand to his lips.

“Thor, if you kiss my hand, I’ll sock you,” Steve said dryly. He shook his head. “For now, that's it.  I gotta let you go.”

Thor nodded.  Smiling fondly, he lifted his hand to Steve’s face, but halted before he touched him. He gripped Steve’s shoulder firmly instead, and left.

Steve stared at the wall for a minute before shaking himself and pulling out his phone.

 

_That was interesting. Still at Dan’s?_

**_Yeah—is everything okay? Thor gone?_ **

**_Want me to come over?_ **

_Yes—please tell me you have dinner._

**_Said I’d get it, didn’t I?_ **

_Good.  I’m starving._

He paused.

_You’re not gonna believe what Thor wanted._

 

Hansen knocked briefly at the door as he let himself in.

“So what did he want?” he asked.  “You said he was confused when you came out to him—did he have a problem with it?”

He set the takeout on the table and found plates and silverware in the cupboards while Steve took a couple beers out of the refrigerator for them.  He sat across from Steve and opened his beer while he waited for Steve to answer.

“No,” Steve said.  “Sort of the opposite.”  He served himself from one of the takeout containers—looked like Thai—and took a bite.  “Not bad.” He bit his lip. “He talked to his girl about me being bi.  Came back and said he had permission to have his way with me, as long as he took pictures to show her afterwards.”  Steve sighed. “I sent him back to London.”

“Sweet Jesus fucking Christ, tell me you said yes to the pictures,” Hansen said.  “You—and him— _together_?  That…” He shook his head. “That’s mind-blowingly hot. That’s—Christ. I don’t have the words for how hot that is.”

Steve pointed his beer at Hansen.

“That—and her—that is not the reaction I would expect,” he said.  “Not even from you, and three days ago you told me I should date around.”

 “Brooklyn, some things are so damn beautiful, it’s a crime to stand in their way,” Hansen said.  “That’s where I file you-on-Thor action.  Holy Christ.  For the record, even if we were exclusive, I’d tell you to go for it.”  He smirked.  “I’d really like to watch.”

“That’s not happening,” Steve said.

“But maybe pictures,” he persisted.

“It really doesn’t bother you,” Steve said.

Hansen shook his head.  “Nope.  And if I were you, I’d sure as hell jump at the chance.”

Sometimes the future was surreal. Steve took a long swig of his beer.

“You’d do it, huh?” he asked.

Hansen smiled wickedly and with his finger traced a slow, sensual path from Steve’s temple down along his jaw to his mouth, where he gently coaxed Steve’s lips to part, allowing Hansen’s finger in. Steve held his breath. He closed his mouth around Hansen’s finger, tentatively touching it with the tip of his tongue. Hansen withdrew his finger, now warm and wet, to trace Steve’s lips.

“I don’t know,” Steve whispered.

“Whatever you want to do, Brooklyn,” he said. “Whatever you want is fine by me. Just don’t forget the pictures.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [On the Air](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2100702) by [debwalsh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/debwalsh/pseuds/debwalsh)
  * [Cover for "Like a Cruel Mistress Woos" by Salvia_G](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2413022) by [Lovesfic (me23)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/me23/pseuds/Lovesfic)




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